Chapter 3

Vera's eyes stung.

Right. She was just the adopted one. Now that the real lady was here, what right did she have to stay in the room next to the Don's?

She was leaving soon anyway. Didn't matter where she slept.

"Fine. I'll pack." She stood.

Her eyes landed on the custom handgun on the table, and bitterness surged.

She'd made it when she was eighteen—a gift for Carlo. Built it herself, hoping it could protect him when she couldn't.

But in her past life, he'd chucked it straight in the trash.

"I ain't using junk like this. What if it misfires? You gonna take the hit for me?"

Yeah. Didn't look like he'd be getting it in this life either.

"No need to pack," Gina said, full of disdain. "I don't want any of that junk. Carlo, just toss it. I want everything new."

Carlo nodded. "Whatever you want."

Then, without flinching, he turned to the house manager. "Gabrio. Have someone clear the room. Move Vera's stuff to the servants' quarters—out back."

Vera let out a dry smile.

"Got it. I'm gone. Won't get in your way. Wishing you and Gina a long, loving life together."

She turned and walked off.

Behind her, Gina's voice dripped syrup. "Carlo, you're the best. Let's go pick out new furniture tonight."

Carlo's tone dropped soft. "Sure. Whatever you want, amore."

Vera shut the door behind her, gathering up whatever was left of her heart.

After that, she kept her distance. Couldn't stomach one more look at their happy little show.

But fate didn't care.

Carlo's message hit while she was buried in her arsenal, fine-tuning specs on a new batch of weapons.

She'd always had the touch. The second she showed interest, Carlo gave her the whole setup to "play with."

Too bad she'd wasted it in her last life, pouring everything into him.

This time, she was leaving. Probably for good.

Still... she wanted to leave something behind.

Just once.

[Pick me up from La Ombra. Bring something for my stomach.]

Vera frowned. She wrote, [You drinking again? Where's Orlando?]

Orlando. The Quaranta underboss. Always stuck to him like a shadow.

No reply.

Her chest tightened.

Carlo's stomach had always been wrecked. Built the family on sleepless nights, bad booze, and worse meals.

Back then, every time it flared up, she'd sit beside him until morning.

Even now—after everything—her body moved before her brain could stop it.

'Maybe this'll be the last time I take care of him.'

She grabbed the med kit and bolted.

No ride. So she ran.

Halfway there, she slipped into a muddy pit. Her knee hit hard—sharp, deep pain slicing through.

She didn't stop.

By the time Vera made it to the club called La Ombra, she was soaked in sweat and looked like hell. An hour gone.

The bodyguards at the door blocked her, mistaking her for some stray. Only when they recognized her—the Quaranta Family's adopted daughter—did they sneer and step aside.

She shoved open the door to the private room—and froze.

No Carlo doubled over in pain.

Just him, feeding Gina grapes. Mouth to mouth.

The med kit slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp clatter. All eyes snapped to her.

Carlo's gaze swept over her—mud-streaked, breathless—and twisted in disgust.

"What are you doing here? Looking like that—who are you trying to impress?"

Vera opened her mouth, about to say, 'You messaged me...'

Gina gasped, all fake-shocked. "Oops! Guess that text for my assistant went to Vera by mistake. My bad."

So it was a mistake. Or just another one of Gina's little games.

"No need to apologize," Carlo said, voice soft, full of comfort—for her. "You're the future Donna. Makes sense she'd run a few errands."

Vera's heart iced over.

'Right. I was the fool. With Gina around, why would he ever need me?'

Later, on her way back, her phone buzzed. Gina.

Vera picked up, voice flat. "You don't have to keep testing me. I already said I'd study abroad. I'm going."

Gina finally sounded pleased. "You'd better stick to that. Visa'll be ready in two months."

Then came a voice she wasn't expecting—

Carlo.

"What visa?"