The Don's Lost Daughter

Dante froze the moment the words left his mouth. When I said nothing, he rushed to explain.

"Serafina, don't misunderstand. Gianna is the only family I have left in this house. I think of her as my own sister. That's why I call her that."

"There is absolutely nothing between us!"

His frantic explanation only made my stomach turn.

I would never forget what I saw in the moments before I died.

Gianna had wept and lied, claiming that my daughter and I had been greedy and eaten cannoli laced with poison by mistake, and that was how we'd died.

Dante hadn't shed a single tear for us. Instead, his face had softened with tenderness as he pulled Gianna into his arms, slipped the clothes from her shoulders, and held her close.

He kissed the tears from her cheeks, murmuring comfort.

"Dead is dead. Even if she hadn't died, I would've had the union annulled in a few days anyway."

"For years now, the only people in my heart have been you and the two children. There's no room for anyone else, and I won't let anyone disturb our life in this house."

From that moment on, everything I'd ever felt for him was gone.

Gianna brought me back out once I'd changed. Dante was crouching in front of Valentina. "Don't you remember your father?"

Valentina stared at him in terror, shrinking back step by step, then ran to me and clung to my leg. Both small fists gripped the fabric of my skirt, but she didn't make a sound.

"She was only a few months old when you left. You didn't come back for five years. How would she possibly remember you?"

Valentina was only five, but with the grime washed from her face, she looked like a little porcelain doll.

Dante scooped her up and tried to coax her. "Be a good girl, Valentina. Say 'Papa.' I'm your papa."

She only found him strange. Her small lips pressed into a thin line as she studied him with wide, cautious eyes.

He hadn't raised her. After a few more attempts with no response, his patience ran out.

"Serafina, you've come and you've been seen. When are you planning to go back?"

I stared at him, stunned. Then I laughed.

"You mean you want me to take our daughter back to that miserable tenement and keep waiting, day after day, for you to come get us?"

Dante's brow furrowed, a shadow of irritation crossing his face.

"I told you, when the time is right I'll bring you both home. The time isn't right yet."

"I know this place looks grand, but there are a lot of people living here. There really isn't a spare room for you and Valentina. Once the guesthouse wing is finished, I'll send for you..."

I cut him off, my voice flat and cold. "Give it up."

"My daughter and I have stripped nearly every scrap of food from that neighborhood. Then the waterfront flooded, and even the dockworkers can't find a meal. We were on the verge of starving to death. I wouldn't take her back to that place if you made me a servant in this house."

It was laughable, really. The Ferrante compound had rooms enough for a small army, crawling with soldiers and household staff.

And Dante claimed he couldn't spare a single room for his own wife and daughter. Did he truly think I was that stupid?

In my last life, I never told him, not even on my deathbed, that my father was Don Enzo Castellano.

I had believed that standing by love meant something. That my devotion proved my worth.

In the end, I was nothing but a joke to them.

Five years rotting in that tenement on the wrong side of the waterfront, and none of it had mattered at all.

Dante's face went white. "What are you talking about? You were scrounging for food? I had money sent to you every month. Enough to live well."

I stared at him. "When did you ever send money?"

"In five years, all I received were your letters every few days. Not a single coin."

Dante whipped around, his eyes locking on Gianna.