Chapter 4

The funeral ended, and as I turned to leave with the box pressed against my chest, Camila appeared behind me.

“Careful, you’ll drop it—” she murmured, but her fingers hooked casually under the lid.

The box slipped, cracked against the stone, and burst open, scattering ash across the steps.

Camila gasped, and stepped back—her stiletto grinding into the ashes.

Then she leaned in.

“When they opened her chest,” she whispered, “her heart was beating so fast. I could feel it from where I stood. It almost hurt. For you.”

My whole body went rigid.

“You should be grateful to him,” she went on, “at least he chose your daughter’s heart to save my baby. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have had any use at all.”

I spun around and slapped her with everything I had left.

“You don’t get to touch her!”

Camila staggered, made a show of losing her balance, and dropped onto the steps.

“I was only trying to help…” she choked, “Why would you hit me?”

People who hadn’t gone far turned back.

“Look, Mrs. Corleone just hit the Luce girl. At a funeral.”

“She’s completely lost it.”

That was when Vincent arrived.

“Vincent,” Camila sobbed, throwing herself into his arms, “I tried to help her pick up the ashes, and she just hit me. She said she’d use the ashes to curse me and Sophia…”

Vincent put an arm around her. When he raised his head to look at me, his eyes were ice.

“Elena. What the hell are you doing?”

I pointed at the steps, at the grey-white stains, and at the clear outline of heels stamped into them. “Vincent, that’s your daughter. This is the daughter you promised you’d protect.”

He was quiet for a few seconds.

Then I asked the question.

“Who pulled the trigger at Teatro di Lilia?”

“Who killed Lily?”

Color drained from Vincent’s face.

“It was an accident,” he said sharply. “A deranged extremist. Elena, you’re traumatized. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

He turned to the onlookers, “She’s been under a lot of stress these past few days. Please forgive her.”

“Deranged?” I repeated. “Is that what you’re calling him? Then how did a lunatic know to cut the power in advance? How did he know which cameras to avoid? How did he—”

“Enough!” Vincent snapped. “Look at yourself. Ranting on the church steps. Insulting the Luce family’s daughter. Get on your knees and apologize to Camila.”

I didn’t move.

“I told you to kneel.” He stepped closer, his hand clamping down on my shoulder—on the wounded one. He pushed down.

Pain flared white-hot, shooting up my neck. My knees buckled, but I clenched my teeth, forcing myself to stay up.

“I won’t kneel,” I said.

“Then I’ll make you.”

He pressed harder. His fingers dug into the fresh wound through my clothes, sharp as nails.

My vision went black at the edges. My knees hit the stone steps with a sickening crack.

Silence fell. Everyone watched. Watched the lady of the Corleone family kneel in front of the mistress.

Camila stood one step up, looking down at me. A smile touched the corner of her mouth.

“I understand your grief,” she said in a low, gentle voice, reaching down as if to help me up. “I don’t blame you.”

I slapped her hand away.

Vincent gave me one last look and then walked away, his arm around Camila’s shoulders.

I dropped to my knees and started gathering them by hand—scooping, scraping my fingers along the cold stone, prying the powder from the cracks.

The wind kept stealing her away, lifting the dust just beyond my reach. I chased it down the steps, stumbling, then staggered back.

That night, Vincent called.

“I was doing it for your own good today,” he said. “The Luce family is on the rise. You can’t afford to offend them.”

I said nothing.

“The ashes… keep them with you for now.” He hesitated. “We'll lay Lily’s ashes under the new road to the estate; she’ll always be close to the family.”

I stayed silent.

“I’ll set up a new grave for her,” he added. “The best spot. When I’m back, we’ll sit down and talk. I’ll make it up to you.”

“All right,” I said at last.

He exhaled, relieved. “Thank you for understanding. You’ve always been so sensible. Just like Lily—always such a good girl.”

He hung up.

I set my phone down, walked into the study, and opened my laptop. The printer hummed to life, spitting out page after page.

“Family Severance Agreement.”

In our world, divorce was more than divorce. It was an act of war. It was cutting yourself out of a bloodline.

I signed my name: Elena Saraceno.

Then I started packing.

Wedding photos. Anniversary gifts. The jewelry he used to apologize, to distract, to decorate me like part of the furniture—I threw it all into the fireplace.

I took only Lily’s things.

The TV in the airport lounge was playing live coverage.

On the screen, Vincent stood in a hospital room, smiling for the cameras. Camila stood beside him. Behind them, a banner read, [The Young Girl Recovering Well After Heart Transplant.]

“We’re deeply grateful for the donor family’s selfless generosity,” Vincent told the reporters. “This program will give many more children a second chance at life…”

Then I took out my phone and dialed a number.

“It’s time,” I said.

When I hung up and looked back up at the TV, the scene had changed.

The hospital door burst open on screen. A doctor rushed in, pale-faced, a file clenched in his hand.

“Sophia never had a heart condition!” he shouted.

The camera jolted. Chaos. The live feed cut.