On the seventh day after the poison incident, I could barely get out of bed and walk on my own. The infirmary had limited conditions, and so, in his so-called mercy, Antonio decided that I should continue recovering in the main estate.

The moment I pushed open the door, I froze.

My room had been completely ransacked. The closet stood wide open, its contents scattered across the floor, some torn, some stained. Every desk drawer had been pulled out, and papers were scattered everywhere.

What made my chest tighten was the nightstand. The silver photo frame holding my parents' wedding picture was gone.

That was the only photograph my parents had left me.

"Looking for this?" Martina's voice came from the doorway. She leaned against the frame, holding the picture frame in her hand.

"Give it back," I said, my voice hoarse.

She laughed and walked to the window, pushing it open. Below was a courtyard paved with stone. If the frame fell, it would shatter completely.

She tilted her head. "Beg me, just like you did that night in the banquet hall. Get on your knees and beg."

My fingers clenched at my sides.

"Martina, don't push it." Enzo's voice suddenly rang out. He and Dante stood in the hallway, clearly just back.

Martina immediately put on a sweet smile. "I'm helping Chiara clean her room. This old frame was all moldy, so I thought I'd wipe it down for her..."

Before she finished speaking, her hand 'accidentally' slipped.

The frame fell from the window, and the sharp sound of shattering came from below.

I rushed to the window. On the courtyard stones, the frame was mangled, the glass shattered, and my parents' photograph was caught by the wind, drifting down into the nearby fountain, slowly becoming soaked and blurred.

"Oops!" Martina covered her mouth, though her eyes sparkled with barely contained glee. "Sorry, Chiara. My hand slipped. You're not mad, are you? It's just an old frame..."

I turned and slapped her across the face.

Martina stumbled backward from the blow and hit the wall. She clutched her cheek, staring at me in disbelief. Then, her eyes immediately welled up.

"Dante! Enzo! She hit me!"

Dante strode into the room and grabbed my wrist. The force was so strong my wrist bones creaked.

His voice was ice-cold as he growled, "Apologize."

My voice trembled as I argued, saying, "She destroyed my parents' keepsake. That was the only photo they left me."

Enzo frowned. "It's just a picture. Martina already apologized. She didn't mean it."

"She did mean it!" I screamed, my damaged vocal cords producing an awful sound. "She deliberately trashed my room and deliberately smashed the frame! Can't you see that?!"

Dante glanced at the mess on the floor, then at the broken pieces outside the window, his brow furrowing. He asked, "Martina, did you go through her room?"

"I just wanted to help her organize..." Martina's tears fell at just the right moment. "She's injured, and a messy room isn't good for recovery. That frame... I really didn't mean to, Dante. You believe me, don't you?"

She threw herself into Dante's arms, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed pitifully.

Dante's grip loosened slightly. He patted Martina's back, then looked at me with a complicated expression.

He said, "Even if she went through your room, you still shouldn't have hit her. Apologize, Chiara."

I could not believe my ears. "She destroyed my parents' keepsake."

"It's just an object." Enzo stepped forward, his tone impatient. "People are more important than things, Chiara. Martina meant well. Even if her approach was wrong, you shouldn't have hit her."

I looked at Dante, holding Martina as he protected her.

I looked at Enzo, standing firmly on her side, treating my anger as an overreaction.

Then, I looked at Martina, who lifted her head in Dante's arms and gave me a brief, victorious smile.

In that moment, something inside me finally snapped. Like the shattered frame, it could never be put back together.

"Fine," I said, my voice frighteningly calm. "I will apologize."

Dante released my hand.

I walked up to Martina and looked at her swollen face. Then, I said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hit you. Just like you shouldn't have smashed my parents' keepsake, shouldn't have put laxatives in my food, shouldn't have locked me in the wine cellar, and shouldn't have falsely accused me of pushing you. None of that should've happened. So now we're even."

Martina's expression changed, and Dante and Enzo froze, too.

I took a step back and said, "Now, all of you, get out of my room."

The word was quiet, but the finality in it shut Enzo up.

Dante stared at me for a long moment. Then, he wrapped an arm around Martina's shoulders. "We are leaving."

As soon as they walked out, I closed the door and slid down against it, sinking to the floor.

After Dante and Enzo left, memories kept coming back to me.

When I was 12 and had a high fever with nightmares, Dante and Enzo took turns watching over me.

Dante said, "Don't be scared. Nightmares aren't real."

Enzo comforted me. "With us here, no one can hurt you."

When I was 15 and got bullied by other kids in the family, Dante took on three of them by himself.

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he grinned and said, "Touch Chiara, and I'll break your bones."

On my 18th birthday, they both kissed my cheeks under the moonlight: one on the left and one on the right.

Enzo said, "You'll always be ours."

Dante said, "Always."

So that was how short 'always' was.

I wiped my tears and touched the ring I had worn for 12 years. Then, I pried open the large pearl on top.

Inside was only a yellowed piece of paper with my father's handwriting, written a week before he died.

[Chiara, if the Lucchese family ever comes for your life, call this number. He won't refuse you because I once saved his life.]

Below it was a phone number.

I lifted my trembling hand and dialed it.

"Who is this?" A deep voice with an accent answered, classical music playing faintly in the background.

My voice was so hoarse it was barely audible. "My name is Chiara Colombo, Giovanni Colombo's daughter."

The line went quiet for three seconds, and the music stopped.

"Giovanni's daughter..." The man repeated, his tone unreadable. "How is he?"

I said, "He died 12 years ago. The Lucchese family killed him."

There was an even longer silence.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Colombo?"

"I want to destroy the Lucchese family," I said slowly, each word slicing through my burned throat. "I have 12 years of their criminal evidence: money laundering routes, lists of bribed politicians, murder records, drug ledgers, all of it. Enough to put Don Lucchese and his two sons in prison for life."

"Your terms?"

"Marry me. Give me a new identity, and make me part of your family. Protect me and help me get my revenge."

My voice was so calm it surprised even me.

"Do you know who I am?"

I admitted, saying, "No. But my father said you'd help me. He said you owed him your life."

The man laughed. The sound was low and carried a dangerous magnetism.

He replied, "I'm Eugene Corleone, the current Don of the Corleone family, and the Lucchese family's mortal enemy."

The name struck like thunder.

The two oldest families in New Orleo's underworld, the Corleones and the Luccheses, had been spilling blood over control of this city for 50 years. In last year's shootout, both sides lost seven men, including the Corleone family's number two, Eugene Corleone's own uncle.

Well, I had just proposed marriage to that family's Don.

"Now," Eugene Corleone said with an amused edge to his voice, "do you still want to marry me, Ms. Colombo?"

I looked at myself in the mirror, at the burn marks on my throat left by the poison, and at the eyes that could no longer shed tears.

I said, "I want it even more now because only you can give me real revenge."

On the other end of the line, I heard the soft clink of a glass being set down.

Eugene replied, "Tomorrow night at ten at the east cemetery of the Lucchese estate. Seventh row, third headstone, the one engraved with these words: Angela Lucchese, my love. Wear black and come alone. If you're followed, I'll watch you die."