Many people no longer remember the details of that year. After the bloodbath that nearly dismantled the Ashford name, Don Ettore and his wife Margaret lost their only daughter, and the entire Family fell into a brief yet fatal period of instability. Rivals circled like wolves scenting weakness. It was during that time that Silvia and I were brought into their sight. Origins did not matter. Blood did not matter. What mattered was that she looked almost exactly like the girl who had died—the same dark hair, the same delicate bone structure, the same ghost of a smile.
So the positions were assigned from the very beginning.
She stood at the center, seen as continuation and compensation. I was placed at the margins, like an additional decision that came along with the rest. The Commission understood this without saying it aloud. No one objected. Silvia learned quickly. She learned how to smile, how to show vulnerability, how to gain the upper hand without making a sound—how to wrap men around her finger while appearing as innocent as a saint. And I learned how to stay silent.
The whispered comments and ambiguous looks had long since lost their edge on me. I grew used to being overlooked, even to being compared. The only thing I misjudged was Giorgio.
I once thought he would be different, at least a little.
"Elena."
Silvia's voice came from across the table, gentle yet precise as a stiletto sliding between ribs. When I looked up, she was already on her feet, walking toward us with the grace of someone who had never known a moment's uncertainty. Her face wore flawless concern—the kind that fooled everyone but me.
"At an occasion like this, you should be more attentive," she said softly. "The Family has treated you well. Do not disappoint them."
Her words were mild, yet every syllable reminded me of my place—reminded me that I existed only at their sufferance, that my standing in this world was borrowed, not earned.
I met her gaze, calm and without emotion.
"I am here," I said. "Being late was my fault."
The corner of her lips lifted slightly. It was not a smile, more like confirmation of something she had always known. "You are always like this," she said quietly. "Not proactive, and not likable."
Before her words fully settled, Giorgio had already taken over.
"Do not be like that, Silvia," he said. "Tonight should not be spoiled by something like this."