Donna Falcone's eyes flickered with unease.

"Adriana, why didn't you wait for us before going in?"

Don Falcone's frown deepened beside her, one hand resting where his jacket hid the weight beneath it. "Didn't we tell you the clinic is crowded, full of the wrong sort of people? We can't let you go in alone. It isn't safe."

I met their worried gazes with calm indifference.

"I couldn't wait any longer, so I went inside to use the restroom," I replied evenly, my face betraying nothing.

Donna Falcone hesitated before asking, "You didn't see anyone, did you?"

The flicker of panic in her expression cut through me like a blade. I wanted to scream, to demand answers; why did you lie to me?

But I already knew the truth. Asking wouldn't change anything.

I had already decided to leave.

"See anyone? I was in a hurry and spent a while in the restroom. I wasn't paying attention."

Don Falcone exhaled, his thumb finding the worn silver medallion in his pocket, rolling it slow. "Let's go. We'll take you upstairs."

He took hold of my wheelchair while Donna Falcone crouched down, adjusting my mask with delicate care, the crucifix at her throat catching the light.

"The sickness is spreading through the ward. You need to protect yourself. If you fall ill, it'll break my heart." Her fingers brushed the cross at her neck, quick, as if asking pardon for the words even as she said them.

Once, the concern in her eyes would have moved me to tears.

But now, I couldn't feel even a trace of warmth in her gaze.

When we reached the private ward the Family kept on the twelfth floor, I lay on the bed as Dr. Russo pressed the anesthesia through the line. Drowsiness pulled me under, but just before I slipped into unconsciousness, their voices drifted through the haze.

"Miss Falcone's leg has gone untreated far too long. If she doesn't have the surgery soon, she may never stand again."

"Every course of rehabilitation was done halfway, and the medication swapped for nothing but vitamins, per your orders. Don Falcone, are you truly willing to watch your own blood remain crippled for life, so young?"

"I didn't pay a fortune to launder you back into this country just to hear your conscience. Do as I say."

The Don's words held no room for argument.

"So what if she never walks again? The Family will keep her for the rest of her days. Why should an outsider like you concern yourself with it?"

"Don't forget who has fed your envelope these five years. Do you truly believe you answer to this clinic, and not to me?"

Dr. Russo hesitated, and I heard the faint sound of glass against fabric, his lenses being wiped clean. "That isn't what I meant. It's only that Adriana has been under anesthesia for years now. If this continues, her body may learn to resist it. What do we do then?"

"That's your problem to solve. Just see to it her legs neither heal nor rot. Keep it controlled."

A beat of hesitation. Then, Dr. Russo's reluctant answer.

"Understood."

The door eased open and their footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by the silence a Don leaves behind him.

I lay there as if I had plunged into an icy abyss.

They didn't know.

Didn't know the anesthesia had long lost its hold on me.

Didn't know I had heard every single word.

Didn't know I had recorded it all.

So this was their design all along.

Five years they had spent feeding me lies, laundering a physician back across the border only to deceive me. No wonder the so-called rehabilitation was buried on the twelfth floor of a ward no one wandered into. All of it a carefully built illusion, mortar over rot.

A sharp pain lanced through my chest and silent tears slipped from the corners of my eyes. Beneath the sheet, I pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my wrist, into the old spot where the line had always sat.

After the "treatment," my parents wheeled me home in good cheer, warmth laced into every word and gesture, as though they hadn't just handed down a sentence of lifelong suffering.

Two hours ago, Lorenzo had been at that clinic, murmuring soft things to Vittoria.

Now he stood at the door in an apron, smiling like the devoted husband he pretended to be.

"Cara, the rehabilitation must have worn you out. I made you some bone broth. It'll bring your strength back faster."

His gaze brimmed with tenderness, his voice rich with concern, exactly like the man who once swore before the Family to love me, to keep me, to stand at my side to the last.

If I hadn't seen him with Vittoria at the clinic, if I hadn't heard the truth pass between them, I might have believed him.

Might have let that warmth seep into my frozen heart.

But now, all I saw was the lie.

His love had never been mine.

It had always belonged to the very woman who shattered my legs.

He was willing to sacrifice our blood-union, to counterfeit his love for me, all just to sign a Family pardon that would wipe clean the debt she owed under vendetta.

He even had a son with her.

At dinner, in the long dining hall of the Falcone estate, my mother suddenly teared up, her gaze lingering on the dishes laid before her. She wiped at her eyes, her expression heavy with sorrow.

Lorenzo immediately set down his knife and fork, his face filled with concern as he asked what was wrong.

My father let out a long sigh, gently patting her back. Beneath the tablecloth I could hear the soft clink of the worn silver medallion he always kept turning between his fingers.

"She must be thinking of Vittoria's favorite dishes, and starting to miss her."

"That child, she made a mistake, but we raised her for over ten years under this roof. She didn't deserve to die."

A bitter taste filled my mouth.

She didn't deserve to die?

Then what about me?

Did I deserve to be handed over in her place? Was I just supposed to accept it?

"Donna," Lorenzo said softly, "it's been five years already. Vittoria was only twenty back then. She might have acted impulsively and made a mistake." His palm moved once down the front of his jacket, smoothing the fabric flat.

"I grew up alongside her. Her nature was a little extreme. She thought you were trying to take everything from her, the whole territory, the whole name."

"Five days from now is her death anniversary. I know you don't want to go, so I'll go with your mother and father to visit her grave, all right?"

Lorenzo's gaze wavered, as if afraid I would suddenly lose my temper at the head of the Don's own table.

"Hmm. You should go. After all, she lived in this house longer than I have. It's only natural that you still have feelings for her."

Lorenzo let out a quiet breath of relief, his voice turning even gentler.

"I knew you were kind-hearted. You've never been the type to hold a grudge against your late sister."

My mother dabbed at her eyes, sniffling softly. Her fingers rose to the crucifix at her throat and pressed there, quick and light.

"My dear daughter, a child of our own blood will always be the most understanding…"

I lowered my head, my tears slipping silently into my bowl.

So. They did know I was their real daughter, the true blood of the Falcone line.

A sharp pain twisted in my stomach. The moment I felt it tighten, I pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my wrist, into the old spot where the IV line used to sit, then pushed back my chair, murmured that I wasn't feeling well, and retreated to my room.

A while later, Lorenzo came in, carrying my stomach medicine. His eyes were full of concern, his voice unbearably soft.

Seeing that I had no intention of speaking, he said nothing. Instead he silently fetched warm water and, with practiced care, wiped my face himself.

For ten years after I was brought into the Family, I was the only one he seemed to see.

Even when Vittoria confessed her feelings for him, she had been met with nothing but his cold rejection.

Now, I finally understood.

He never loved me. He only wanted the title that came with me, made successor to the Falcone rackets and territory.

His love and his blood-union had always been two separate things.

Late at night, after Lorenzo drifted into sleep, I reached for the phone on his bedside table.

The password was my birthday.

His pinned contact was me, followed by my parents.

I scrolled through his messages. There was nothing unusual, until I switched accounts.

That was when I found the second one.

Only one name appeared in its chat list. Vittoria.

[Lorenzo, it's been five years. How much longer do I have to keep hiding?]

[She has no proof I hit her, and she's a cripple now. She's no threat at all.]

[Our son keeps crying for his daddy. Can you really bear this?]

Lorenzo's replies were full of reassurance.

[Your parents and I are already discussing a plan. Just be patient.]

So. They had already brought Vittoria back. Buried her under a false name. Built her an entire life.

Only a few days ago.

They had even set her up with a front real-estate racket, registered clean under that fabricated name, 'Celeste Marino.'

In five days, the grand opening would take place.

My hands trembled as I opened Lorenzo's social feed.

I scrolled. My heart turned ice-cold.

For five years, Vittoria had been living in luxury overseas, bankrolled by my family, laundered abroad where no vendetta could reach her.

She dressed in designer labels funded through the Family's laundered money. The villa she lived in? One of the Syndicate's overseas properties.

And Lorenzo? He had been at her side the whole time, using "business trips" as his cover to fly out to her.

Even my own parents stood in the photographs, smiling as if they belonged there.

In that moment, I understood.

They were the real family.

Swallowing back the stinging tears, I took screenshots of every piece of it, then switched back to his main account.

I finally noticed Lorenzo had changed the words beneath his name.

For years it had been the same, a single word. [Wait.]

When I once asked him what it meant, he smiled and said he was waiting for my legs to heal.

But now, it had changed. [Home.]

And at last, I understood.

Wait had never been for me. He had been waiting for Vittoria. Home meant she was finally back inside Family walls.

I placed his phone back on the nightstand and stepped onto the balcony, my fingers tightening around my own.

"Yes, I'd like to arrange passage overseas. Departure in five days."

Five days. Just enough to bury five years of lies.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

The next day, at the long table where the Family took its midday meal, my phone lit up.

Lorenzo's gaze flicked to it from the corner of his eye. His expression darkened.

"Wife, why are you moving to close your accounts?"

I shut off the screen, my voice calm. "The account was flagged for renewal. I scheduled it."

He looked like he wanted to press further, but then his phone rang. He smoothed the front of his jacket with one flat palm, top to bottom, before he answered.

"Something's come up with Family business, tesoro. I have to handle it. I won't be able to sit with you."

I nodded, watching as the Don and Donna rose and followed him out.

And just like that, I was left alone in this house, with only the soldiers at the doors for company.

Just as I was about to leave, a message came through.

[Adriana, you heard everything at the physician's yesterday, didn't you?]

It was Vittoria.

[Your husband and I have a son.]

[Even your own blood, the moment Dr. Russo told them your injuries had left you barren, chose me instead. They told Lorenzo to be with me. To give the Family an heir with me.]

[We're the real couple. You? You're nothing but a joke.]

[They even set me up with a front of my own. The opening is in five days. I suppose no one bothered to tell you that either, did they?]

[I regret not running you down sooner. Then all of this would've been mine from the start.]

…

Each word sliced through me like a blade, cutting deep, leaving nothing but raw, open wounds.

So this was why my own blood had cast me aside.

This was why Lorenzo had stayed at her side so willingly.

Fingers trembling, I took screenshots of every message and turned to the nightstand, retrieving the papers of my blood-union.

Buried inside, I found something else: his formal pardon, the document that was meant to clear the debt owed for crippling me.

Clutching both, I pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my wrist, the old spot where the line once sat, and went straight to my Consigliere.

But after reading through them, Salvatore Conti frowned.

He explained that messages like these couldn't stand as solid proof, and that a pardon signed by blood carried weight before the Commission.

When I asked him to draw up the terms to sever the union, his frown deepened. The union, he told me, had never been sanctified. It was void. A forgery that had never been Family law at all.

It felt like a bolt of lightning had struck me, leaving my heart plummeting into a bottomless abyss.

So Vittoria hadn't lied. I truly had been nothing but a fool, a puppet in their cruel game.

But just as despair threatened to consume me, something new flickered in Salvatore's eyes.

He squared the edges of the papers into a clean stack, then set them down and said that, under these circumstances, Lorenzo's pardon held no weight either. It was fraud. Concealment. A lie dressed as mercy.

A surge of hope rushed through me, breaking past the suffocating grief. Clutching onto that sliver of light, I begged him to bring it before the Commission.

Leaving his office, I found a car and made my way to a physician outside Family reach, my fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of my dress.

This time, I needed the truth.

When he told me there was still hope for my leg, I broke down in tears of joy.

A sob tore from my throat as my vision blurred with tears.

He explained that the crash had left me unable to conceive, but that surgery could restore what had been taken. As for my leg, the fracture hadn't worsened in five years. With surgery, I would walk again soon.

I choked on my breath, struggling to process his words.

He smiled to reassure me. "Someone has clearly been seeing to your care. If these legs had truly been left to rot for five years, there would have been no hope of recovery."

A bitter chill seeped into my bones, spreading through my heart like ice.

He didn't know.

He had no idea that the very people he spoke of, my so-called blood, were the ones who never wanted me to stand again.

No.

They were no longer my Family.

As I stepped out, my phone vibrated in my hand. Another message from Vittoria.

It was a photo.

In it, she held her son in Lorenzo's arms, their faces glowing with contentment. The Don and Donna sat beside them, mirroring the same joy.

The five of them smiled as if they had always belonged together.

Behind them, on the pale wall of the grand estate, in the Don's own hand, the words read:

[A united famiglia wants for nothing.]

The cruel irony twisted deep inside me, cutting sharper than any blade.