an austere black mourning gown, I closed my eyes and pictured

rdized social standing, terrified of losing her impending marriage to the Romano family. Isabela, driven by her venomous hatred for me and a desperate need to protec

ngelo Falcone. They would bribe the press, spinning a web of lies to paint me as a grief-stricken, delusional sister whose mind had

n't give th

y. I didn't speak. I didn't cry. I just walked. Every step toward St. Patrick's Cathedral sent a shockwave of fire up my legs, but I kept my posture rigid, my hea

ed like vultures. T

w York Daily Mirror* shoved his way t

arsed perfection. "Hasn't she suffered enough? She only wanted to honor her brother, the great Angelo Falcone! But when she tried to speak the truth about how her family

tive was set. I was no longer a hysterical girl; I w

Soldier who had fought beside "Angelo"-the ultimate, lethal proof of Marco's treason. But that was for later. Today's performance wasn't just for the public. It was for

edges. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by the crushing reality

lingering elites from last night's chaos. Through the chaotic crowd, I spotted Dona

ry. I needed Donatella to take me in completely. As the flashbulbs flared around me,