Chapter 1

In the depths of Manhattan's Upper East Side, I curled up on the massive Italian leather sofa in this luxury apartment, my fingers trembling as I pressed the record button.

This was the seventeenth time.

Each time made me despise myself more, but I couldn't stop. Like an addict who knows the drugs will destroy them, yet can't resist taking another hit.

"Lucas, please... I'm sorry, don't be mad at me..."

My voice was barely a whisper, trembling with heartbreak. God, was this really me? This voice, so humble it belonged in the dust—was this really Gloria Benedetti, who once dared to look every man in the eye during Mafia meetings?

"I really didn't mean to question you in front of your friends... I was just too nervous... please, forgive me?"

Sixty seconds of audio, every word tearing away what remained of my dignity. I remembered Vincent Benedetti's words: "Gloria, never let anyone see your weakness."

But here I was, recording my weakness into a voice message, voluntarily delivering it to a man who wasn't even worthy of Vincent's shadow.

I closed my eyes, my finger hovering over the send button. My mind drifted to five years ago—my eighteenth birthday night, when Vincent taught me to shoot at the firing range.

He stood behind me, his hands covering mine, helping me adjust my grip on the gun. I felt the warmth of his chest against my back, breathed in his familiar cologne, and suddenly my heartbeat became uncontrollable.

"Remember, Gloria," his voice whispered in my ear, "only the strong can protect those they love."

In that moment, I realized my feelings for this man had transcended gratitude, transcended dependence, even transcended paternal affection.

I loved him.

Madly, desperately, hopelessly in love with him.

I turned to look at him. Vincent seemed to sense something; his eyes became complicated. Those deep gray-blue eyes held tenderness, affection, and a kind of pain I couldn't understand then.

"Gloria..." he called my name softly, his voice hoarse.

We gazed at each other like that, the air thick with dangerous tension. I almost thought he would kiss me, almost thought he would acknowledge this feeling between us.

But in the end, he stepped back.

"You're still too young," he said, turning away from the shooting range.

From that day on, our relationship became delicate. Vincent remained loving toward me, but always carefully maintained his distance. And I, like a moth drawn to flame, desperately tried to close that gap.

I learned to wear makeup, learned to walk in high heels, learned to socialize elegantly at family dinners. I wanted him to see that I was no longer the little girl who needed his protection—I had grown into a woman, a woman worthy of standing beside him.

On Christmas Eve when I was twenty, we both had been drinking. I wore a red silk dress, and he said I was beautiful. We danced by the fireplace, his arms around my waist, so close I could feel his heartbeat.

"Gloria," his voice was as deep as red wine, "you know we can't..."

"Why can't we?" I interrupted, gathering courage to ask the question in my heart. "Is it because I'm your adopted daughter, or because you don't love me at all?"

Vincent looked at me, and in those eyes was a vulnerability I'd never seen before.

"You don't understand," he said. "If I love you, I'm destroying you."

"Then destroy me," I said, standing on my tiptoes, almost kissing his lips.

But just then, someone knocked on the door. There was urgent family business, and Vincent had to leave. He looked at me deeply, then turned and left.

Three months later, the explosion happened in Sicily. Vincent died.

We never had the chance to say those words, do those things, become what we truly wanted to be to each other.

I snapped my eyes open and hit send.

Vincent was dead. Dead for three years.

And I was just looking for a substitute, even a poor-quality substitute.

The moment "Read" appeared on my phone screen, my heart seemed to stop beating. I stared at the screen, waiting for Lucas's reply like a prisoner awaiting judgment.

But what came wasn't his reply.

It was a screenshot.

My hands began to shake, barely able to hold the phone. It was the Benedetti family young people's group chat. My voice message had been forwarded with the caption: "Guess who this pathetic little dog is? Hahahaha"

Then messages poured in like rain:

"Oh my God, is this really the Don's little princess?"

"I thought she was so proud, turns out she can grovel too"

"Lucas's move is genius, conquering the godfather's adopted daughter must feel amazing"

Every message was like a knife stabbing into my heart. I wanted to be angry, wanted to fight back, but I found I could do nothing. Because I had handed them the knife myself.

The last message froze my blood instantly:

"If Vincent were still alive, he'd probably kill Lucas himself"

Vincent.

I shook my head frantically, trying to dispel the images flooding my mind. The explosion in Sicily, the blast that took his life. Not even a body was found, as if he had never existed at all.

But he had existed. He had saved me, taught me how to survive in the dark world, given me the only warmth in this world.

And now I was humiliating myself for a man who bore only a passing resemblance to him.

My phone buzzed. Lucas's message.

"Come to Golden City nightclub now. Immediately. If you don't come, I'll send tonight's voice message to every Mafia circle in New York."

My finger lingered on the screen for a long time.

I could choose not to go, could choose to preserve my last shred of dignity. But then tonight's humiliation would spread throughout the entire Mafia world. Vincent's adopted daughter, the Don's little princess, would become a laughingstock for everyone.

I couldn't let Vincent's reputation be damaged because of me, even though he was gone.

I put on a simple black dress, no makeup. The woman in the mirror looked haggard and desperate, nothing like the Gloria who was once called "the Don's pride."

Thirty minutes later, I stood outside the VIP room door at Golden City nightclub.

My hand rested on the door handle as I took a deep breath. Behind the door came men's laughter and the sound of chips clashing on the card table. I knew that once I pushed open this door, there would be no going back.

But I had no way out.

The door opened, and cigarette smoke from the room hit my face, making me want to cough. Five or six men sat around the card table, each staring at me with curious eyes, as if watching a show about to begin.

In their eyes I saw anticipation, malice, excitement for the humiliation to come.

"She really came," a freckled man said quietly. "Lucas, are you sure she'll...?"

Lucas sat on the sofa without even looking up. He toyed with a King of Hearts in his hand, a smug smile on his lips. Like a predator about to enjoy his meal.

"You came," his voice was casual, as if I were just some dispensable waitress. "Stand there. Don't move."

My body trembled slightly, but I still followed his command, standing by the door like a prisoner awaiting sentence.

The card game continued. I stood there, watching them play cards and drink, listening to their occasional whispered comments. I heard my name, heard some words that made me blush, but I couldn't leave, couldn't even argue back.

Time passed slowly, each minute feeling like a century. My legs began to ache, but I didn't dare move.

"Damn it!" Lucas suddenly cursed, slamming his cards on the table.

In that instant, I saw his profile.

Time seemed to freeze.

The furrowed brow, the angry expression, and that familiar jawline... in the dim light, Lucas looked just like...

"God, he looks just like Vincent when he's angry..."