I’d known since I was very young that she was strong.
Strong enough to inspire awe.
The corridors of Ferraro Manor are long.
As a child, I often hid around a corner, watching her walk by.
She was surrounded by a group of armed men.
Everyone bowed their heads, barely daring to breathe.
The sound of her high heels clicking on the ground felt like a hammer blow to the heart.
They called her—
"The Goddess of Justice."
The most untouchable person in the underworld.
At committee meetings, she always sat in the center.
Calm, her tone steady.
"The family's interests are above all else."
"Procedures cannot be broken."
No one dared to contradict her when she said these words.
I was once proud.
And I longed for it.
I wanted to be like her.
But later I understood.
She never considered me "part of the family."
I suddenly wanted to ask her:
If one day, the person you dissected was me,
Would you stop?
Would you be sad? The answer, I already knew.
—No.
I remember it clearly.
She grabbed my neck and pinned me against the wall.
Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice hoarse.
“I’d rather you were the one who died.”
At that moment, I forgot to struggle.
Now, thinking back.
She was probably serious.
The night grew deeper.