Chapter 8
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"Do you hear that, Lorenzo?" I said coldly. "The doctors say Mia suffered from severe dissociative amnesia after the suffocation and terror she endured that night. To protect herself, her brain triggered a survival mechanism and wiped every single memory related to her papa."
"In her world, the papa who once loved her is dead," I continued, snuffing out his last shred of hope. "To her, you're nothing more than a stranger who once tried to kill her."
The words hit Lorenzo with more lethality than any bullet. His legs gave out, and he collapsed into the mud.
He stared at his daughter, who couldn't even bring herself to look in his direction, and finally realized the true magnitude of what he had lost.
Some sins couldn't be washed away by a few days of kneeling or a handful of tears.
Even though he was still alive, he was already dead in her heart.
He buried his hands in his matted hair and let out a gut-wrenching wail of despair. There were no more pleas for mercy, no more pathetic excuses—only bottomless regret.
"Let's go, Mia," I whispered, gently stroking her hair.
I turned the wheelchair away from the gate. "Don't be afraid. He's just a stranger. He doesn't mean anything to us."
Behind us, Lorenzo lay curled in the dirt like a heap of broken flesh, watching the wheelchair grow smaller and smaller until it vanished from his world forever.
…
One month later, the sun in Smeraldia was so bright it was almost blinding.
The bells of the Cathedral of Santa Rosalie tolled 12 times.
The great piazza was a sea of black. Thousands of Made Men and underworld representatives from across the globe had gathered.
Today marked the inauguration of the new Don of the Corleone famiglia.
I was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. On my lapel was pinned a blood-red rose, the emblem of supreme authority.
Papa stood behind me and personally slipped the signet ring symbolizing the absolute authority of the Don onto my finger.
"From this moment on, the underworld is yours to command. But to me, you will always be my greatest treasure," Papa declared, his aged voice brimming with quiet pride.
I turned to face the vast, dark assembly. As one, the crowd dropped to a single knee and bowed their heads in absolute fealty.
"All hail Donna Corleone!"
A deafening roar echoed through the heavens.
My gaze cut through the crowd, landing on a black wheelchair in the corner of the piazza.
Mia was there, wearing a beautiful dress and clutching her teddy bear, waving at me with all her might.
Once the ceremony concluded, my Consigliere approached and handed me a medical report.
"Donna Corleone, that beggar, Lorenzo, gouged out both of his eyes last night," he reported, his voice low and cautious. "He said he no longer had the right to look at this world, and that he was unworthy of ever seeing Mia again."
I listened to the report, my heart as still as a stagnant pond.
"I see," I replied flatly. "Patch him up. I want him to live a very long life and carry the crushing weight of his guilt until his very last breath."
My Consigliere bowed his head and replied, "Understood."
I walked over to Mia, crouching down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead.
"Mama, are we going home now?" she asked in her sweet, tiny voice.
"Yes, sweetie. We're going home."
I took hold of the wheelchair. Flanked by dozens of heavily armed Soldati, I led her toward the armored limousine.
Behind us, the setting sun stretched my shadow long across the ground.
The Elena Corleone who once spent her days in a kitchen, pouring her soul into meals for her husband, had died that night.
The woman who remained was the only queen Smeraldia would ever know.
