Gianna's POV

I stood in the shadows of the warehouse, watching him.

My mind involuntarily drifted back to the past—to the arranged marriage between Dante and Francesca when they were kids.

I remembered how Francesca's family broke off the engagement the moment Dante's family lost their power.

She abandoned him.

She humiliated him throughout high school, twisting him into a withdrawn, isolated youth.

But I was the one who stayed.

I helped him forge alliances. I helped him build his legitimate fronts. I stayed by his side until he clawed his way back to power.

And now, I was forced to watch him believe her lies and punish my family.

"Listen to the doctors and get some rest," Dante said softly into the phone, his tone so tender it didn't match the man who had just snapped my brother's fingers. "I'll come see you soon."

He hung up the phone and turned around. When he spoke again, his voice was back to ice.

"Throw Leo in the holding cell," he ordered.

"Drag her to the solitary confinement room in the back." He jerked his chin toward my unconscious mother, then strode toward the warehouse exit.

I floated out after him.

On his way, he stopped at a high-end boutique for a brief moment.

He came out carrying a nutritious meal and a bouquet of fresh flowers.

Outside the door of the hospital's VIP suite, I stopped in the hallway.

Through the half-open door, I saw him hesitate at the threshold. He cleared his throat, lowered his voice, then pushed the door open with a smile on his face.

"Frankie?"

Francesca sat up in her hospital bed.

She turned her head slightly, staring blankly at the wall—playing the blind victim flawlessly.

"Is that you?" she asked.

Dante walked over, placed the flowers on the nightstand, and affectionately ruffled her hair: "You're so clever, knowing it was me just from my voice."

Francesca pouted: "It took you way too long to come see me."

"But I'm here now, aren't I?" Dante coaxed her gently, placing the flowers into her hands. "You are the most important person in my life, Frankie."

Francesca brought the flowers up to her nose and sniffed.

Her brow immediately furrowed.

"Are these gardenias?" she asked, a hint of displeasure in her voice. "You know my favorites are bluebells."

Dante's hand froze.

He was holding a plastic spoon, stirring her warm porridge. The spoon hung in mid-air; it took him a few seconds before he resumed stirring.

Gardenias.

My favorite flowers. Once upon a time.

A flicker of something flashed through Francesca's supposedly blind eyes. It was quick, well-hidden, but I caught it.

It was resentment.

She instantly shifted her expression, her voice trembling: "Are you... are you still thinking about Gianna?"

Dante put the spoon down. He took her hand, his tone hardening: "I wouldn't waste a single second on a liar who left me to rot in the dark. The florist just made a mistake."

He paused, leaning in closer to her: "I'm only hunting her down to get her heart. The day you're fully healed, we're getting married."

Francesca stared in the direction of his face. She pouted: "Then prove it to me."

"How?"

"Kiss me."

Dante leaned down.

He pressed his lips against hers, pulling her into a gentle embrace.

I turned away.

I covered my ears with my hands, but the intimate sounds of them still slipped through. The sound made me sick to my stomach.

I floated out of the hospital room and stood in the desolate hallway.

Betrayal ate away at me from the inside like venom, delivering a thousand tiny bites.

My sacrifice, my corneas, my family—she had stolen it all.

Gianna's POV

Dante stayed in the hospital suite for less than ten minutes.

He hastily made an excuse to leave, strode down the empty hallway, and slipped into a private restroom.

He cranked the faucet to the max, splashed water on his face, and gripped the edges of the porcelain sink so hard his knuckles turned white.

He stared into the mirror.

The eyes staring back—eyes that used to be mine—were as hollow as an abyss.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with trembling hands. As the smoke rose, he stared at his reflection and muttered under his breath: "Where is she... where the hell is she hiding..."

He pulled out his phone and made a call.

"Report her location," he demanded into the receiver, his voice raspy.

A hesitant silence met him on the other end.

Veins bulged on Dante's forehead: "You useless pieces of trash!"

He violently smashed the phone against the tiled floor. He leaned against the sink, his chest heaving, his breathing labored as if something heavy was crushing his lungs.

Footsteps sounded outside the door.

He quickly put out the cigarette, straightened his suit, pushed the door open, and walked out.

The attending doctor was standing by Francesca's bed, holding a clipboard. He looked up, his expression grim.

"Miss Francesca's condition is deteriorating rapidly," the doctor said in a low voice. "Her heart... it's giving out."

I hovered near the ceiling, looking down at Francesca.

Francesca started to cry.

"Dante..." she reached out, her voice trembling. "I don't want to die... I'm scared..."

Dante rushed to the side of the bed and pulled her tightly into his arms. He looked down at her, his eyes filled with fear—the fear of losing the only thing that mattered to him.

"You're not going to die," he said, his voice deep but absolute. "I swear on my name as Don, no matter the cost, I will drag Gianna back. Her heart will save you."

Francesca buried her face in his chest, sobbing: "Would you really do that for me?"

"I swear."

I stood in the corner, watching the scene unfold.

I felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of sorrow.

I had given him my eyes, and he was using them to look at her.

It was late into the night when Dante left the hospital.

He strode into the warehouse, his hand gripping a thick leather whip.

"Drag Leo out here," he ordered.

The soldiers dragged Leo back to the center of the room. Leo's arms hung limply at his sides, his broken fingers swollen and purple like a cluster of deformed grapes.

He lifted his head, his eyes unfocused, his lips cracked and dry.

Dante crouched in front of him, lightly tapping the whip against his own palm.

"I'll ask you one last time," he lowered his voice. "Where is she?"

Leo coughed up a mouthful of blood. Blood froth trickled down his chin, dripping onto the concrete. He looked at Dante, his voice raspy like sandpaper rubbing against stone:

"Gianna... is dead."

Dante's jaw muscle tightened into a hard knot beneath his skin.

He stood up and raised his arm. The veins on the back of his hand bulged, pulsing with his rapid breaths. The whip tore through the air and struck Leo viciously.

Crack!

Leo's shirt tore open, his flesh splitting as beads of blood splattered through the air. He clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out.

Crack! Crack!

Dante lashed him again and again, every strike delivered with a near-insane amount of force. Leo's body convulsed against the chair, but he remained silent.

"Where is she?!" Dante roared, his voice echoing in the warehouse.

Leo lifted his head. His face was covered in blood, but he managed to pull his lips into a twisted smile.

"Dead," he repeated. "You'll never find her."

Dante stopped.

Panting heavily, he stared at Leo for a long time. Then he tossed the whip to a soldier and pulled out his phone. He snapped a few pictures of Leo's mangled body, then tapped the screen a few times.

"Throw this phone into her mother's cell," he said, handing the device to a soldier. "Let her get a good look."

The soldier took the phone and walked toward the back of the warehouse. The iron door opened and closed. A few seconds later, a sharp ringtone echoed from the damp stone corridor.

Less than twenty minutes later, the heavy doors at the back of the warehouse were thrown open.

Rosa rushed in.

Her hair was a mess, her clothes wrinkled and stained. She looked utterly broken—until she saw Leo.

Leo was slouched over, covered in blood, the wounds on his chest still oozing. Hearing the commotion, he struggled to lift his head.

"Mom..."

Rosa's tears spilled over. She stumbled forward, trying to run to him, but the soldiers held her back.

Dante stood in front of her, looking down at her from his towering height.

"Madam Rosa," he said, his voice dreadfully calm. "Are you finally ready to give up that traitor's location?"

Rosa looked at him. In her bloodshot eyes was nothing but bone-chilling despair.

With a trembling hand, she pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. She stared at Dante, speaking word by word:

"This is her location."

She threw the crumpled paper hard at his chest.

It bounced off and fell to the floor.

Dante looked down at the paper, his sneer deepening. He didn't even bother to bend down and pick it up; he just nudged it with his dress shoe.

"You expect me to believe this?" he scoffed. "You think you can brush me off with a piece of trash?"

He turned to his soldiers: "Grab her and lead the way. Let her personally take us to her lying daughter."

The soldiers grabbed Rosa's arms. She didn't struggle; she just stared at Dante, a look in her eyes that he couldn't decipher.

The convoy drove through the night for twenty minutes.

When the armored SUV finally stopped, Dante pushed the door open and stepped out. He looked around, the smirk freezing on his face.

Wrought-iron gates. Grassy hills. Rows upon rows of tombstones.

The city cemetery.

Dante turned around, glaring at Rosa. His eyes turned dangerous, like a beast backed into a corner.

"You brought me here?"

Rosa didn't answer. She walked straight through the gates and made her way up the hill. Dante followed behind her, his footsteps growing heavier.

Finally, Rosa stopped in front of a tombstone.

Engraved on the stone was a black-and-white photo—a photo of me. Below it was my name, and the dates of my birth and death.

Dante stared at that photo. He stared for a long time.

Then he let out a scoff.

"A farce." He shook his head, turning to Rosa. "An elaborately designed charade. Your whole family is full of master actors."

He pointed at the tombstone, his voice rising: "You think I'll believe this? You think just throwing up a piece of stone will make me think she's dead?"

Rosa clenched her teeth. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn't raise a hand to wipe them away.

"This is the truth, Dante," her voice was raspy but firm. "Whether you want to believe it or not."

Dante shoved her hard by the shoulder. Rosa stumbled and fell to the ground, her knees hitting the damp dirt.

"Truth?" He glared down at her, eyes freezing cold. "Your truth is a load of bullshit. She's hiding in some corner of Europe with that bastard Matteo. Your whole family is covering for her..."

He didn't finish his sentence.

A soldier approached, his face pale, gripping a cell phone. He stood behind Dante, hesitating before speaking:

"Boss..."

Dante turned around, his face impatient: "What is it?"

The soldier swallowed hard. His hands were shaking.

"The tech team... they bypassed the records Matteo deleted and found the original files from that clinic. Unredacted."

Dante stared at him.

"What does that mean?"

The soldier took a deep breath, his voice trembling:

"Boss... Miss Gianna... she did it to save you..."

He paused, as if gathering all his courage: "She donated her corneas to you. Post-operative infection... she died."

Gianna's POV

Dante's expression froze.

He just stood there, completely motionless, like a stone statue. The night wind swept through the graveyard, blowing his hair and the open edges of his suit jacket.

He stared at the soldier, his lips moving, but no sound came out.

Then he suddenly lunged forward, snatching the phone. He pressed it against his ear, his voice so hoarse it sounded like his throat was tearing apart:

"Say that again."

A broken, crackling voice came through the line, every word stabbing into his chest like a knife:

"Medical records... confirmed... Miss Gianna... cornea donation... post-operative infection... deceased... cemetery registered on Luther Road..."

Dante's hand was shaking.

He gripped the phone, his knuckles turning white. I felt like the plastic casing was about to crack in his palm.

"Lies." He spoke into the receiver, his voice low but frantic. "You're all lying to me. My men, her family, you're all lying to me."

The voice on the other end swore on his life. The intelligence was verified. There was no mistake.

The phone slipped from Dante's ear.

He stood there, staring at the photo on the tombstone.

My eyes. That black-and-white face, looking back at him so peacefully.

Rosa picked herself up from the ground. She stood behind Dante, her voice hoarse but clear:

"I should have locked her in her room. I should have stopped her, absolutely forbidden her from giving those eyes to you."

Dante whipped around.

"Shut up!" he roared, his voice exploding in the silent graveyard. "Shut up! Do you hear me?!"

He pointed a trembling finger at the tombstone: "She isn't dead! She can't be dead! Francesca gave me those corneas! It was her! Not Gianna!"

Rosa looked at him, her eyes filled with pity.

"Dig it up." Dante turned to his soldiers, his voice frantic and unhinged. "Dig up this grave right now."

The soldiers looked at each other hesitantly.

"Dig!" Dante bellowed. "Dig right now!"

Shovels bit into the earth. The sound was deafening in the dead of night.

Rosa surged forward but was caught by the soldiers and pinned to the ground. She struggled, screaming:

"You animal! Can't you even leave her final resting place in peace?!"

Dante ignored her. He stared at the deepening hole, his breathing growing heavier and faster.

Rain began to fall.

It started as a few drops, but quickly turned into a torrential downpour. The rain soaked the tombstone, soaked my photo, and soaked the dirt piling up by the edge of the pit.

The soldiers kept digging.

The shovels hit the dirt with muffled thuds. A damp scent of decay and rotting leaves wafted up.

Finally, a shovel hit something solid.

The soldiers stopped, looking down into the bottom of the pit. A heavy marble urn, half-buried in the mud.

They lifted it out.

The marble urn was caked in mud. The rain washed over it, carving trails of muddy water down its sides.

A soldier hesitated for a second, then handed it to Dante.

Dante reached out.

The moment his fingers touched the cold, filthy marble, his entire body started to tremble. He held the urn like he was holding the most precious, yet heaviest, thing in the world.

A soldier pointed into the open grave: "Boss, there's something else down there."

Dante looked down.

Half-buried in the loose dirt was a small silver object.

He froze.

He slowly squatted down and reached out. His fingers touched the cold metal, plucking it from the mud.

A silver watch.

He recognized it.

It was the first-anniversary gift he had given me. The watch he had personally fastened around my wrist.

The silver chain was caked in mud. The inscription carved on the back was obscured by the dirt.

Dante's hand began to shake violently.

The marble urn slipped from his numb fingers, crashing onto a rock half-buried in the dirt. With a dull thud, a crack spiderwebbed up the side of the urn.

Then, it broke apart.

My ashes spilled out onto the wet mud. The rain immediately washed them into a dark paste, blending them with the earth.

Dante stared at the pile of ashes.

He stared at the mud-covered watch.

He fell to his knees.

He kneeled in the rain, kneeled in the mud, right next to my scattered ashes. He gripped the watch, pressing it tightly against his chest. His lips moved, but he made no sound.

Then he started to laugh.

It was a hysterical, blood-curdling laugh. He threw his head back, rain hitting his face as he laughed, his entire body shaking.

"Fake..." he muttered, his voice breaking. "It's a fake... she faked her death... she left the watch just to make the lie more convincing..."

The laughter morphed into choking sobs.

He clutched his chest, bending over as violent, racking sobs tore through his throat. He kneeled in the mud, screaming my name over and over:

"Gianna... Gianna..."

The rain poured harder.

The soldiers stood a short distance away, looking at each other, none daring to approach.

Rosa picked herself up from the mud. She walked over to my tombstone, kneeled down, and traced my photo with her fingers. She didn't look at Dante again.

Dante stayed on his knees for a long time.

Then he staggered to his feet, swaying like a drunkard.

Clutching the watch, he turned away from the grave. He didn't look back at the scattered ashes, didn't look back at Rosa kneeling in the rain.

He walked off into the storm.

I floated behind him, watching him.

He walked in the rain for half an hour. The downpour soaked straight through his expensive suit, his hair plastered to his forehead, his face like a walking corpse.

He finally got into a car.

He started the engine and slammed the gas pedal. The car tore through the city, blowing through red light after red light.

The hospital.

He got out of the car and walked into the building. The elevator, the hallway, the door to the VIP suite.

He stood in front of the door.

His face was devoid of expression. A dead, eerie calmness.

He lifted his heavy boot and kicked the door open.

The wooden door slammed against the wall with a deafening crash.

Francesca jumped up from the bed.

She stared straight at the doorway. Straight at him.

She forgot to pretend she was blind.

Dante walked into the room. He stood in front of her, rainwater dripping from his suit, pooling on the floor beneath him.

He stared at her.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Francesca's lips started to quiver.

Dante spoke. His voice was low, seeping through his teeth like lethal venom:

"Francesca."

He paused.

"You can actually see... can't you?"