Chapter 2

When Lily first fell in love with opera, Vincent bought an entire stretch of oceanfront estate in the harbor district on her birthday. He said he was going to turn it into an opera estate named after her: Teatro di Lilia.

The main house would be converted into a small theater just for her rehearsals, with vocal coaches flown in from Europe; the side wing was to become a “Children’s Arts and Rehabilitation Center.”

In that moment, I was almost moved to tears by how thoughtful he seemed. My heart went soft, like it was about to melt—look, I thought, he’s finally putting the two of us first.

That night Lily was too excited to sleep. She clung to my hand and kept asking over and over, “Mom, did Dad really build an opera house for me? Really?”

I held her and told her of course it was real, that Daddy loved her most in the world.

It wasn’t until much later that I accidentally found out Camilla was living in another renovated house on the same estate. All those amenities, that so‑called “children’s center,” existed mainly so it would be convenient for her and her daughter to use every day.

Back then it never even occurred to me that Vincent could be cruel enough to take the same opera house—wrap one half up as our little girl’s dream, and quietly use the other half as a parts warehouse for his mistress’s child.

All the “fatherly love” I thought I saw, all those late‑night tears I shed being moved by his “effort,” turned out to be nothing but decorative wrapping paper, hiding a far more precious gift meant for someone else.

In the hospital room, Vincent noticed how pale I was and immediately called the doctor.

When the doctor pressed on the wound in my right shoulder, the pain made me suck in a sharp breath. Vincent frowned and snapped, “Be gentle.”

He adjusted my sling himself, told the nurse to stay on top of the painkillers and wound care. Before, details like that would’ve made me cry with gratitude. But now, looking at his focused profile, all I felt was estrangement.

Had all that tenderness before been an act? If it was, then he was a hell of an actor—good enough that it took me seven years to see the seams.

After a while, Vincent was called away.

He left his phone on the bedside table. I picked it up and tried my own birthday as the passcode—the screen flashed “incorrect.”

Then I tried Camilla’s birthday. It unlocked.

The bluish glow lit up my face like a silent slap.

The pinned chat at the top was labeled “My Little Angel.”

In the newest photo, Camilla’s daughter had just come out of surgery, weakly holding up a victory sign from her hospital bed.

Vincent had replied: [Our baby finally has a normal heart. She deserves all of this.]

My tears fell.

The day Lily was born, I’d actually believed that defying my family for him—choosing him even though the Corleones and the Saracenos had been blood enemies for generations—had all been worth it. I thought the life I’d gambled everything on was finally paying off.

Looking at it now, it’s laughable.

I scrolled upward stiffly, my finger moving faster and faster across the screen, like I was desperate to confirm something and terrified of seeing more at the same time.

Years ago, he’d bought Camilla a private island and a vacation villa. Every birthday after that, it was nothing but extravagant gifts: luxury cars, jewelry, a private medical team. Their chat was filled with detailed discussions of her daughter’s treatment plans, education, and future on stage.

And Lily and I? All we ever wanted for our birthdays was one full day of his time.

“I’m swamped. I’ll make it up to you next time,” he always said.

I set the phone down. The screen went dark.

Only one thought remained in my mind: I was going to take Lily back to my family.

Back to the home I’d walked away from for Vincent.

The next morning, Vincent came in carrying a bowl of thin vegetable porridge.

“The doctor suggested this,” he said softly, scooping up a spoonful and blowing on it. “It’ll help your circulation.”

I thought of how yesterday the doctor had recommended using that rare batch of anticoagulants to save my arm.

And how Vincent had said that medicine had to be “saved for Camilla—her daughter will need it after the surgery.”

I forced down a few spoonfuls despite the nausea and made myself stay clear‑headed, determined not to let this kind of “care” fool me again.

I put the spoon down and asked, “Where will Lily’s funeral be held?”

Vincent noticed the fresh blood seeping through my bandage. His tone was gentle but conflicted. “Don’t push yourself to attend. I’ll take care of everything. We’ll keep it simple, just close friends and family, and then send her straight to the cemetery.”

“I’m going,” I said. My voice was quiet, but each word was bitten out clearly.

“You’re in no condition—” He reached out, trying to touch my face. I turned my head away.

“Shut up,” I snapped, my voice shaking. “That’s my daughter.”