But in the end, every advantage I earned was stripped from me in silence. My invitation to sit at the inner table, the one reserved for those who proved their worth, was quietly redirected. The commendation from the local Padrino, the one that should have carried my name to the ears of La Rete itself, was rewritten. All of it, every scrap of recognition, every hard-won honor, was handed to Rosalia as though she had bled for it.
And then came the whisper campaign.
Rumors slithered through every hallway and safe house. They said I had compromised myself with the territory bosses, that I had traded my body for favor. The words spread like kerosene on stone, and once the match was struck, there was no stopping the fire. I was isolated. Frozen out of every meeting, every gathering, every shared meal. For four years I lived as a ghost in a world that had once been mine by birthright, surrounded by people who would not meet my eyes.
Through all of it, Giancarlo and Salvatore had sworn they stood beside me. They pressed their hands over their hearts and told me they would shield me from the poison. That no one would touch me while they drew breath.