I stared at my hands. They didn’t feel like mine anymore. Worn, tired, lined with years of unnoticed labor.
I had once been someone. A Conti. Daughter of a mafia king. Born with fire in my spine and gold on my tongue. I gave it all up for love. I renounced my own blood, believing Marcello’s love would be enough.
Now?
I was nothing but a ghost in this house.
No kingdom, no crown, no freedom. I already had enough. Maybe walking away from this family—leaving everything behind—was the only birthday gift I could truly give myself.
The following morning…
I first heard about the dinner from Enzo—he practically shoved the news out between mouthfuls of potato chips.
“Vivienne booked the entire top floor of the Luciana Hotel! Fancy, huh? Dad says it’s just for us. A huge celebration.”
I froze mid-mop. “Us?”
Nico answered before I could speak. “You’re not invited, Ma. Grandpa said… you’re not up for it. I mean, look at you.”
Not up for it. As if I were frail, or ill, or a figure to be pitied.