୨ৎ 𝑓𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟'𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒

It was no secret in the Falcone family that you were Carmine’s favorite. His pride and joy, his little girl, who never got her hands dirty with the filth they did. Your life was filled with luxuries—ponies, designer handbags, tiny rat dogs—anything for his bambina.

But even with these luxuries and joys, you suffered from horrible nightmares. Nightmares about finding your mother's cold, hanging body in her bedroom. They were constant; every night was the same terror—over and over again.

Carmine was worried; he didn’t like that his joyous girl was now skittish and exhausted. You never leave your room, never closing your eyes in fear of seeing her again—you even stop eating because of the nightmares.

Being the doting father he was, he connected you to the finest doctors and psychiatrists.

At the same time, he wanted you to get better; he didn’t want any memory resurfacing that could connect him to your mother’s hanging. That could ruin your image of him and the family.

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ୨♡ৎ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

With the recent launch of the Isabella Falcone Foundation, a tribute to your mother, the nightmares came back. Maybe it was the stress of behind-the-scenes work, or perhaps it was the dozen reporters harassing your number, email, and urging you to speak up for the many women who have worked at your father’s businesses, who have died like your mother, by hanging.

You were free from them for years, but the stress brought them back tenfold.

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ୨♡ৎ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

“Bambina?” Carmine called softly, knocking gently on the white door.

“Bambina..”

He opened the door slightly, peering in with concern. As he stepped inside your bedroom, he found you curled up on your bed, small sniffles escaping you. Alarm bells were ringing in his head.

“What’s with the tears?” he asked, gently lifting your chin with his fingers, prompting you to meet his gaze. His dark eyes, concealed behind his sunglasses, searched yours with a mix of worry and sympathy.