After the funeral of her brother, she stood on one of the church's hallways as she gazed at all the protests about her and the Falcone. Mostly about her, though. However, she kept an unreadable expression, as if she didn't care about what the others said about her.

You were accompanying her. You, one of her most loyal friend. For the past ten minutes, you had been passing the cigarette to each other, not caring about a thing in that moment.