Chapter 155 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 155 (Elena's POV)
Maria pressed answer and put it on speaker.


"Maria?" Giulia's voice came through—completely different from the calm, serious woman in my memory. Her tone was light, even carrying a hint of smug uplift.


"Jiejie!" Maria's tears flooded instantly. "Are you okay? Where are you? I couldn't reach you—"


"Of course I'm fine, I'm not stupid." Giulia snorted. "The second the shooting started that night, I knew things would go sideways. Good thing I'm clever—had those men in black suits help me stage a death scene."


"Blood packs, bullet holes, fake corpse photos—the whole package. Ferrante's side has already confirmed 'Giulia Ferrante died in the crossfire.'"


Maria covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.


"Stop crying, silly." Giulia's voice softened. "I'm in Naples now, waiting for you. Once your business there is handled, come find me. We never have to go back to that hellhole."


"Really?" Maria's voice broke into fragments. "It's really over?"


"Really." Giulia said. "When has your sister ever lied to you?"


Maria cried too hard to speak, just nodded desperately—though Giulia couldn't see.


"Okay, okay, stop crying." Giulia's tone snapped back to brisk. "Are you still safe there? That woman helping you—the Caruso one—is she still around?"


"She's here." Maria sniffled, looking at me.


"Thank her for me," Giulia said. "Tell her—she promised to protect you. She kept her word."


After the call ended, Maria held the phone and cried for a long time.


Sofia sat beside her, one arm around her shoulders, the other hand gently patting her back.


Two women leaning together, like two trees supporting each other through a storm.


I waited for them to calm down before speaking.


"All right," I said. "Time for business."


Maria dried her tears and nodded.


I pulled out the laptop from my bag.


"We write a tip-off email," I said. "Anonymous. Worded like someone inside Ferrante—knows the rules, uses the jargon, but doesn't reveal specific identity."


Maria straightened.


"I'll write it," she said. "I know their internal communication format and vocabulary."


For the next hour, I coached Maria through the email while Sofia scanned the evidence.


The Ferrante family's rules were brutally strict—and this had nothing to do with integrity.


Quite the opposite. Precisely because their foundation was shallow, their dirty work abundant, their roots unstable, they needed iron-fisted governance to maintain internal order.


Any transgression was a challenge to family authority.


"Add one line at the end," I said. "'This individual's behavior has already attracted the attention of external law enforcement agencies. If not addressed promptly, it may implicate the family.'"


Maria typed the line and looked up at me.


"That sentence will accelerate their response," I explained. "What Ferrante fears most is FBI attention. Rico's existence becomes a ticking bomb—they'll be desperate to dismantle it."


Email complete, Sofia inserted the scanned files.


I used a few anti-tracing tricks to ensure the recipient couldn't trace it back.


"This recipient name is so long… Family Disciplinary Committee," Sofia muttered.


"Of course," Maria said. "They have a dedicated process for handling these reports—that's why nobody inside the family trusts each other. Everyone's afraid of being reported."


I clicked decisively—send.


Maria stared at "Sent successfully" for a long time.


Then she looked up at Sofia and me.


Tears glistened in her eyes, but her mouth was curved.


Sofia was smiling too—that trembling smile of something suppressed too long, finally released.


"We really did it," Sofia said, voice shaking, but every word bitten hard.


"Of course we did!" Maria repeated, palm on her belly.


I looked at them.


Two women once crushed by the same man, now sitting on the same sofa, the same fire burning in their eyes.


"Fuck Rico Gutierrez," I said.


Sofia burst out laughing.


Maria laughed too—laughing until she cried again, tears and laughter tangled together, a beautiful mess.


Sofia held her, the two of them embracing, crying and laughing at once.


I leaned against the sofa armrest, watching them, mouth curving too.


This feeling was good.


Really good.


Like finally striking the first match in a long, endless darkness.


The flame was small.


But warm enough.




Unfortunately, I couldn't enjoy that warmth for long.


When I returned to the garage, Dario was waiting at the entrance.


His face was ashen.


"Boss." He opened his mouth, lips moving twice before the words came. "Your great-uncle's been hospitalized."


My feet nailed to the ground.


"His heart," he said. "Sudden attack this afternoon. Uncle Simone took him to the hospital. The doctor said… it's serious. He needs surgery, but at his age—"


He didn't finish.


I was already running.


I twisted the motorcycle's throttle to its limit, blowing through three red lights.


University of Chicago Hospital. Cardiology. ICU.


The corridor's disinfectant smell and fluorescent lights reminded me of Palermo—of those days I'd spent in a hospital bed myself.


Uncle Simone stood outside the ICU, leaning against the wall. Seeing me, he quickly stepped aside from the doorway.


I pushed through.


My great-uncle lay in the hospital bed.


Tubes extended from his body in every direction—heart monitor, oxygen tube, IV line. Machines beeped steadily, green waveforms rising and falling on the screen.


He was thinner than when I'd seen him in Palermo.


Cheekbones jutting, eye sockets sunken, skin so thin you could see the blue veins beneath.


An IV needle in the back of his hand, tape holding it in place, a small bruise surrounding it.


His eyes were closed.


I walked to the bedside. The chair leg scraped the floor with a soft sound.


His eyelids twitched, slowly opening.


Seeing me, the corner of his mouth moved.


"Don't look so grim," he said, voice very faint, as if drifting from somewhere far away. "I'm not dead yet."


My nose stung, but I held it in.


"You scared me to death," I said, sitting at the bedside.


"Making a fuss," he grumbled. "Getting old. Parts wearing out, that's all."


"What did the doctor say?"


"Says I need surgery." He snorted. "I said I'm seventy-three, what surgery. He said if I don't, then I'm waiting for—"


He didn't finish, but I knew what came next.


"Then we do the surgery," I said.


"High risk."


"Higher risk not to."


He looked at me, a glint of amusement in his clouded eyes.


"Stubborn as your grandmother."


I took his hand.


His fingers were thinner than before, knuckles protruding, skin dry as old paper. But his returning grip was still there—though much weaker.


"Elena," he said.


"Mm."


"Whether I'm here or not—"


"Don't say that."


"Let me finish." His fingers tightened once. "Whether I'm here or not, you need to take care of yourself. Can't throw yourself away just for revenge."


His gaze fell on the gauze at my temple—already replaced with a small piece, but still visible.


"Promise me," he said.


I bit my lower lip.


Throat too blocked to speak.


"Promise me, Elena."


"…I promise."


His fingers relaxed.


Eyes slowly closed, breathing evening out.


As if finally setting down something unbearably heavy.


The heart monitor beeped on, green waveform rising and falling steadily.


I sat at the bedside for a long time.


Until I was certain he was truly asleep, then gently released his hand and stood.


Walked out of the ICU.


The corridor lights were bright. Painfully bright.


Uncle Simone still stood at the door.


He glanced at me. Said nothing.


I couldn't hold it anymore. My back found the cold wall and I slid down until I was crouching on the floor.


Hands covering my face.


Tears seeping through my fingers, dripping onto my knees.


I couldn't lose him.


Couldn't.


Couldn't lose any more family.


Grandmother was gone. Father was gone. Mother was gone. Tommaso had nearly gone.


If my great-uncle also—


I buried my face deeper, shoulders shaking.


No sound.


Only breathing—rapid, broken, impossible to steady.