Chapter 3

Countdown: 3 days.

Tonight was the family's annual charity gala.

By tradition, a child of one of the capos was to present a painting to the Godfather, Don Vittorio, symbolizing the family's legacy and loyalty.

Tessy, wearing the velvet dress I had custom-made for her, sat in the front row of the banquet hall.

Her eyes were fixed on the carved wooden doors at the entrance.

I sat beside her, holding her small, slightly sweaty hand, a sharp pain squeezing my heart.

I knew his empty promises meant he wouldn't show, but a child's heart always holds on to a sliver of hope.

Tessy whispered, "Mama, Papa said he would definitely be here to watch me present my painting to the Godfather today."

I didn't say anything, I just held her hand tighter.

Ten minutes before the presentation segment began, my phone screen lit up.

It was a text from Rocco.

[Something came up on our turf. Can't get away.]

[Tell Tessy I'm sorry.]

A cheap excuse, a broken promise he took for granted.

I placed my phone face down on my lap, withholding the cruel truth from my daughter.

Tessy looked toward the entrance again. "Maybe Papa's motorcade hit traffic."

The gala continued.

The host, the family's own Consigliere, took the microphone.

"Next, please enjoy the artwork presented to Don Vittorio by one of our family's own young artists."

Tessy's hand squeezed my fingers tightly.

"This year's piece is titled The Godfather and the Longsword!"

The velvet curtains parted, and an oil painting was revealed under the spotlight.

The Godfather in the painting held a longsword, majestic and inviolable. It was the result of half a month of work, her sweat and tears poured onto the canvas.

She had channeled the last of her respect for this family into the brushstrokes.

Tessy stood up excitedly, looking back at me. "Mama! It's my painting!"

I smiled in relief and was just about to lead her toward the red carpet.

The host continued, "And now, please welcome the artist behind this year's piece, Elio Ricci!"

The smile on Tessy's face froze instantly.

The signature in the bottom right corner of the painting on the large screen clearly read "Elio," not "Tessy."

Her hard work had been blatantly stolen and credited to Carmela's son.

Tessy stood frozen in place, her lips moving, but no sound came out.

A few of the other capo wives nearby leaned in to whisper, "Why is Rocco's daughter standing? I thought they called up the widow's son."

Tessy heard it. She silently sat back down and lowered her head.

I clenched my fists, stood, and strode toward the VIP lounge.

Carmela was inside, as expected. She was bending over, straightening a bowtie for Elio, her bright red lipstick applied flawlessly.

I blocked her path. "Carmela, stop right there."

She looked up, a smile still hanging on her face.

"Oh, Gwen. What are you doing in here?"

I stared at her coldly. "My daughter painted that. What right does your son have to take the credit?"

Carmela took a half-step back, her voice low, her shoulders shrinking to make her look pitiful.

"Gwen, don't take this out on me. Rocco arranged this with the Consigliere himself. I honestly had no idea..."

She paused, then leaned closer, her lips twisting into a smirk as she spoke in a voice only I could hear.

"So what if your daughter worked her fingers to the bone? One word from Rocco is all it takes to give the credit to my Elio."

"Men give their favor to whomever they please. Your jealousy won't change the fact that Rocco couldn't care less about you or your daughter."

"You have no shame." Seeing the smug provocation on her face, I slapped her, hard and clean.

Carmela's head whipped to the side, and she clutched her face, letting out a scream.

Just as I was about to drag her out to confront the Consigliere, the lounge door was kicked open.

A hand pushed violently against my shoulder.

"Gwen! What the hell is wrong with you?"

The force of the shove sent me stumbling back, my lower back slamming hard against the marble counter.

I bent over in pain, barely able to lift my head.

The man who had entered was Rocco.

He shielded Carmela and Elio behind him, glaring at me with bloodshot eyes.

Carmela pressed against his back, whimpering.

"Rocco, it hurts so much. Don't blame Gwen, it's all my fault. I shouldn't have let Elio take the spotlight. I'll give it back to her..."

Rocco saw the red swelling on Carmela's face. He pulled her into his arms and turned on me, pointing a finger in my face and cursing furiously.

"Gwen, have you lost your mind? Assaulting someone at the family gala? You're acting like a venomous, heartless bitch."

Holding onto the counter, I stood up straight and looked at him.

"Rocco, Tessy painted that stroke by stroke for more than half a month! You changed the signature to Elio, and now you push me for this woman?"

"It's just a painting!" Rocco cut me off. "Tessy is young, she'll have other chances! Elio grew up without a father. He can't hold his head high among the other family kids. He needs this. He needs to be seen by Don Vittorio, to have a patron, to have protection."

"Salvatore took a bullet for me! I gave his son one chance to be seen. So what?"

"As a capo's wife, you should have more grace. Hitting someone? You're being unreasonable."

Venomous. Unreasonable.

My daughter was robbed of the artwork she was so proud of, robbed of the honor of presenting a gift to the Godfather.

I came for justice, and in return, my husband, Tessy's own father, shoved me against a marble counter for another woman.

I said nothing more.

Applause echoed from outside. Elio was led onto the stage by the staff.

He kissed the Godfather's ring, stood in front of Tessy's painting, and smiled for the flashing cameras.

Carmela walked out on Rocco's arm. She approached the edge of the stage and took the microphone, her voice thick with perfectly measured, choked sobs.

"Elio owes everything he has today to our most respected Mr. Rocco Marchetti..."

"Rocco treats us, a widow and her orphan son, better than his own flesh and blood."

Rocco lowered his head and let out a sigh.

"Mama."

A soft call came from behind me, and I turned around. Tessy was standing at the entrance to the restroom.

She looked at Elio holding the painting on stage, looked at Rocco holding Carmela, and looked at me holding my lower back.

"Tessy." Panic gripped my heart, and I reached for her.

But Tessy quietly took a step back.

She looked down at the family rose brooch pinned to her dress.

She raised her hand and slowly, deliberately, unpinned the symbol of honor from her velvet dress. With a clatter, she tossed it into a nearby trash can.

Then, she stood up straight and gently dusted off her hands.

"Mama, let's go home."

My daughter's small face was tight, tears welling in her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them fall.

My heart felt as if it had been carved out with a knife. I walked over and held her tightly without a word.

Then, I turned around and walked through the crowd, leaving the banquet hall without looking back once.

I didn't turn back to argue anymore.

There's no point arguing with a man who is blind to the truth. It's a waste of breath.

Back at the estate, Tessy sat alone in her room for a long time. Then she opened her diary and wrote a new entry.

The title read: Papa Gave My Painting to Someone Else and Hurt Mama for Another Woman.

I took out my phone and opened the airline app.

Without a second thought, I changed our tickets to the West Coast, booking the first red-eye flight for the following day.

I wouldn't stay in this filthy city, this territory controlled by Rocco, for a second longer than I had to.