"Did you see her in that dress?"
"Of course. It looked like it was made for her."
"It was like she was the bride. Like she was the one sealing the alliance with the Corleone heir."
I cleared my throat. The hallway fell silent at once, footsteps retreating quickly. Even the household staff knew better than to be caught speaking ill of the Don's daughter—even the overlooked one.
I looked down at the gown, my fingers trembling slightly. Not from grief. Not anymore.
From rage.
"You don't deserve it," I said softly, though I was not certain whether I was speaking to the dress, to Silvia, or to the naive girl I had been just hours ago. "You don't deserve anything I ever gave you."
The next second, I threw it into the fire.
The flames devoured the fabric hungrily, silk blackening and curling, pearls popping in the heat like gunshots. The Venetian lace that had taken Signora Marchetti three months to complete turned to ash in seconds.
And with it, the last of my illusions.