Chapter 4

The lights at the press conference were harsher than I'd expected.

Below the stage, cameras lined up in neat rows like an impassive jury awaiting a verdict. The emcee finished his introduction and gestured for me to take the podium, and I could feel every gaze settling on me — curious, contemptuous, gleefully entertained.

The script had been printed in advance and lay on the lectern.

The title on the first page read:

**Statement Regarding Fabricated Footage and Formal Apology**

I looked down at the words. My fingertips paused at the edge of the paper for just a beat before I raised my head to face the audience.

Front row, center: Marco, his expression severe. Chiara beside him, poised and lovely, her eyes soft with a sympathy that almost looked real — as though she pitied me.

I began to read.

"Regarding the footage circulating online in recent days, I wish to make the following formal statement…"

My voice was clear and steady, as though I were narrating a story that had nothing to do with me.

I admitted to "a loss of emotional control" and paying someone to produce a malicious edit. I admitted that "jealousy toward Miss Chiara" had driven me to irrational behavior. I admitted the footage did not reflect reality.

With every sentence, the camera flashes grew brighter.

The public opinion that had been questioning Marco pivoted almost instantly; the tide in the comment sections turned before your eyes.

"So the Eastern European woman snapped first."

"Mixed-heritage families — always a mess."

"The Don really drew the short straw marrying her."

As I read the final line, my phone vibrated faintly in my hand.

That tremor nearly ripped me in two.

But I didn't stop.

I followed the last line on the page and bowed to the audience in apology.

A thin scattering of applause rose from below, drowned out by whispers.

The press conference was over.

I had barely stepped off the stage when my phone buzzed again.

This time it wasn't a system alert. It was an automated notification from the private medical facility.

[Medication Quota Account: Current authorization suspended.]

My eyes locked on that line for a full three seconds.

Suspended.

Not adjusted.

Not pending confirmation.

Suspended.

I looked up at Chiara, standing just a short distance away.

She was at Marco's side, fielding a few brief questions from reporters, perfectly at ease. She even "explained" on my behalf — said I'd simply been under too much pressure.

She caught my stare and gave the black card the faintest little wave.

The gesture was almost imperceptible.

But more than enough for me to understand.

I turned and walked backstage without looking at anyone.

The instant the elevator doors closed, I was already dialing the medical facility's direct line.

"Why has Rosa Esposito's medication quota been suspended?"

The nurse on the other end spoke in the rote monotone of bureaucracy. "I'm sorry, the authorizing party has frozen the account. We're unable to continue administering medication."

"Who froze it?"

"The system shows the signatory as Marco Ferrante."

The elevator reached the underground garage.

I all but threw myself into the car. The ignition, the gear shift — every motion stripped of its usual composure. The tires shrieked against the concrete.

I have no idea how many red lights I ran on the way there.

The medical facility's metal walls reflected cold sunlight.

When I pushed open the door to the isolation room, my mother was no longer connected to the breathing machine.

Her face was whiter than the night before, her lips almost devoid of color. The lines on the cardiac monitor had grown faint and erratic.

"Where's the medication?" I seized the attending physician by his coat. "Why wasn't it administered?"

"Authorization frozen. We have no clearance." The doctor pulled free from my grip, his tone clinical. "And the patient's condition has entered its terminal phase. Even with continued treatment, the efficacy would be limited."

"Limited is not zero." My voice was shaking. "Why did you stop?"

The doctor said nothing.

I already knew the answer.

It wasn't that the treatment was futile.

It was that someone had decided the cost was no longer worth paying.

I walked to the bedside and took my mother's hand.

Her skin was far colder than I remembered — like ice beneath moonlight.

"Mom," I whispered, my voice cracking for the first time, "I was so close."

Her lashes trembled, ever so slightly.

As if she heard me.

The next second, the monitor let out a piercing, unbroken wail.

Flatline.

The world seemed to lose all sound.

I didn't cry.

I didn't even scream.

I just watched that flat line, the way you watch an ending that was written long ago.

I don't know how much time passed before my phone buzzed in my palm.

An unfamiliar number, but the caller ID bore the unmistakable crest of the Volkov family.

I answered.

A low, measured voice came through from the other end.

"Sofia."

For one instant, I forgot how to breathe.

"Uncle Viktor."

Two seconds of silence on the other end. Then, solemn:

"The appeal succeeded. Your mother's exile has been overturned. The syndicate has restored her noble status. Our people are en route to Ferrante territory to bring you both home."

I stared at the white sheet draped over the body on the bed. My throat felt as if it had been sliced open.

"Too late."

Silence on the line.

"What do you mean?"

I closed my eyes.

"She's dead."

On the other end, a single breath — barely audible.

Heavy.

Strained.

Like someone fighting to keep a blaze of fury contained.

"Who did this?"

I opened my eyes and gazed at the cold metal walls of the isolation room.

"The medication supply was cut."

Viktor's voice turned frigid in an instant.

"The Ferrantes froze it?"

"Yes."

A long silence. Then:

"Sofia, leave Ferrante territory immediately. I'll have people in position to extract you. Your safety comes first."

"Safety?" I murmured.

"I'm not leaving."

"I'm going to make them pay."

No protest came from the other end.

Only a steady, solemn promise.

"All right."

"The syndicate will back you with everything it has."

"You are not alone."

By the time I hung up, the sky outside had turned dark.

The medical facility's corridor stretched out empty and silent.

I stood beside my mother's bed and understood, with sudden clarity, a simple truth:

Money was no longer enough.

Rules were no longer enough.

Even the self-destruction of that press conference was no longer enough.

They thought making me bow my head would end it.

But the real reckoning had only just begun.

Three days from now — the Ferrante family's annual Power Succession Gala.

That would be as good a time as any.