For the longest time, I truly believed that Lorenzo's love for me was real. His pursuit, his sweet words, the tenderness he showed when no other made man in the Family bothered with tenderness at all. It made me feel special, like I had finally found the one who truly cared in a world built on suspicion.

But now, looking back, I see it all for what it really was. From the very beginning, it had been a lie.

His pursuit? Fake.

Our union, sworn before the famiglia? Fake.

Even his illness, the one the bought house doctor swore by? Completely fake.

And somehow, I had fallen for it all, hook, line, and sinker. I had gotten trapped in his so-called love and couldn't escape.

Don Adamo was wrong about me. I'm not like my mother. She gave everything, her life, her soul, keeping made men alive in back rooms no one would ever name, dying with that cool discipline still intact. But maybe, just maybe, I'd found where I truly belong.

Three days after I woke in the doctor's back room, Lorenzo came in, just like always. "Adriana, how are you feeling? Any pain?" His voice was full of concern, the way it had been so many times before.

But this time, I couldn't bring myself to answer with the warmth I once had.

Instead, I gave him a cold look and said, "I want to go home."

He froze for a moment, hesitation flashing across his face. His thumb moved once around his wedding ring, slow, almost idle.

After a long pause, he finally said, "I'll ask the doctor if you're good to go."

A few hours later, after a thorough check, I was cleared to leave. Lorenzo took me back to the place I thought of as home, an estate behind iron gates where the men outside straightened when his car passed.

As soon as we walked inside, I felt something was off. The whole house was decorated like a celebration, streamers, balloons, and a huge cake sitting in the middle of the long dining table where the Family usually took Sunday dinner.

"Happy 26th birthday, Adriana." Lorenzo smiled as he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me.

I stared at the cake, completely stunned. "You remembered..."

"Of course I did," he said with a grin. "Now, make a wish and blow out the candles."

I sat down in front of the cake, still in shock. Just as I was about to close my eyes to make a wish, my burner line rang. Lorenzo's face immediately changed. His brows furrowed, and he stepped into the study to answer it, the door clicking shut behind him.

When he came back, his face was full of urgency. "Adriana, something happened with Gianni. I need to go see to it. I'm sorry."

Before I could even respond, he was already out the door, the soldiers in the hall parting for him without a word.

A few minutes later, a video came through on my phone. I opened it, and suddenly, my whole world shattered.

The video showed Bianca, clinging to Lorenzo's sleeve, looking pale and fragile, like she was about to break.

"Lorenzo, I'm pregnant. I can't believe it, I'm really pregnant. What should I do?" she cried, her voice shaky. Her smile flickered a half-second too long after the tears, then steadied.

Lorenzo wiped away her tears, his expression serious and reassuring. "Don't worry, Bianca. I'll take care of you and the child."

Bianca's eyes filled with fear as she asked, "But Marco... he died in that accident on the road. What if my child grows up without a father?"

"Don't worry," Lorenzo said, his voice soft but firm. "I promise you, I'll be the father to this child."

And with that, Bianca collapsed into his arms, her face lighting up with hope.

I couldn't breathe. My chest felt like it was being crushed. I was trembling as I held the phone. The image of them holding each other was seared into my mind. Each second of that moment felt like a hammer, striking over and over. The house had gone impossibly quiet around me, the way a room goes quiet when a Don walks in, except there was no one left to walk in. Only me, and the silence, and the ice melting in a glass no one would drink.

My vision blurred as hot tears spilled down my cheeks, one after another, without control.

Instinctively, my hand moved to my abdomen.

I remembered the image of her, how tiny she was, how fragile. She should have been here.

But the doctor had told me I couldn't give up two-thirds of my liver, a debt of flesh, while carrying her. The decision was made for me, and I had no choice but to bury the child no one would ever speak of again.

At first, I was so happy when I found out about her. I wanted to give her the best life.

But in this cruel twist, I had taken away her right to live.

And her father? He was making promises to another woman, vowing to be a father to her child.

"Why? Why are you doing this to me?" I screamed, my voice breaking. I swiped my arm across the table, knocking the cake off and watching as it crashed to the floor.

I swept everything off the table, plates, crystal, all of it scattered across the floor and shattered.

But no matter how much I broke or shattered, the only thing that remained was the suffocating pain in my chest.

I sat there on the floor of the silent estate, overwhelmed, my sobs echoing off the marble and the dead air of a house built to keep secrets in. The weight of everything was crushing me.

By the time Lorenzo finally returned, I was standing in front of the mirror, staring at the scars from the debt I'd paid in flesh. Its reflection was all I could see. The deep reminders of the sacrifices I made for him.

Lorenzo approached me, his steps hesitant, like a man unsure whether the room he'd entered was still safe.

He rested his head on my shoulder, his voice thick with emotion as he said, "Adriana, thank you. I promise I'll make it up to you. I'll treat you twice as well from now on."

I didn't even look at him. I caught the small motion at the edge of my sight, his thumb turning the wedding ring once around his finger. My eyes remained fixed on the scars on my body.

And under my breath, I muttered, "Disgusting!"

Then, before I even realized it, I started rubbing at the scars, over and over, desperately trying to scrub them away.

But the pain, it didn't even register. I couldn't stop myself.

Lorenzo panicked, rushing to grab my wrists, trying to hold me still. "They're not disgusting! If you don't like them, I'll bring in the best surgeon the Family can buy to take them off. Just please, stop!"

He pulled me into his arms, lifting me back onto the bed. But I barely felt it.

It wasn't until I looked into his eyes that I realized something was different. I reached out without thinking, touching the scar between his brows, the one he got the night the ambush came down and he pulled me out of the wreckage.

"Some scars can never be erased," I said softly, my voice barely a whisper.

Lorenzo didn't say anything. He just sat there, staying close to me for the next week as if waiting for me to break. The men outside the door kept their distance. Even they seemed to know the temperature in that house had changed.

One evening, as I stared out the window at the dark line of the grounds where his soldiers walked their rounds, my thoughts heavy, I turned to him and said, "I want the roasted chestnuts from the old vendor on Night Garden Street."

Without a second thought, he grabbed his car keys and was gone.

I used to love how he'd never say no to any request I made. But now, I knew the truth. It wasn't love. It was guilt.

As soon as Lorenzo left, I had a cab take me straight to the back room the house doctor kept for the Family's quiet patients.

Bianca was there, sipping soup, looking completely unfazed. She didn't even flinch when I walked in. It was like she was expecting me.

She casually took another sip, her eyes meeting mine with that same smirk.

"I know what you're thinking," she said. "Lorenzo and I grew up in the same houses. He was sworn to me before any of this. I was the one who told him to go after you."

I didn't say anything. I just stared at her, my anger bubbling up.

She seemed to enjoy my silence, watching me like I was some kind of show.

Finally, I broke the silence, my voice barely above a whisper. "You were never sick, were you?"

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then grinned. "Nope. Thanks for the liver, though." Her laugh came a half-second too fast. "I never used it. Threw it to a stray dog. Hilarious, right?" The sound stopped short, but the smile stayed fixed where it was, long after it should have.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. A hot rage spread through me, my hands shaking with fury. I wanted to lash out, to rip her apart.

But it wasn't just about her. It was about him.

"Lorenzo never loved you," Bianca said, as she stood up and sauntered over to me. She casually tapped my abdomen with her finger, that cruel smile still on her lips. "By the way, how does it feel to kill your own child?"

"Shut up!" I screamed, the rage exploding.

I shoved her with everything I had, sending her stumbling backward. But at that exact moment, the door burst open.

"Stop!"

Lorenzo rushed in, grabbing my wrist and throwing me to the ground. Without a second thought, he picked up Bianca and cradled her in his arms.

His eyes, cold and piercing, looked down at me. "Adriana, Bianca is sick. You shouldn't have laid a hand on her!"

Sick? He didn't seem to care that I was just as much a patient as she pretended to be.

But he ignored that. He was too busy paying attention to Bianca, making sure she was okay.

I just stared at his back, my body trembling, my heart numb. There was no point anymore. I picked myself up and walked out without a word.

...

Back at the estate, I laid everything out on the table in the front room, everything that had been a lie. The blood-bound union sworn before the Family, the records of the buried child, the recording of Bianca's confession that broke every law of silence they lived by.

I put a note beside them, written in the old Sicilian dialect the trusted men used between themselves:

[We're even. From now on, we are strangers in life and death.]

I pressed the pad of my thumb hard against the inside of my wrist, where my mother once taught me to find a pulse, and held it there until I was certain I would not fall apart. Then, without another word, I walked out the door and headed straight for the airport.