The Sister Who Shot Me Got Everything I Had Chapter 03
The Surgery That Bought Her a Crest
After the meeting, I quietly signed a job offer with a foundation three thousand miles away.
From now on, the daughter they’d been waiting for, and the seven years of grief they’d been faking—none of it had anything to do with me.
After that, I rolled into the private clinic on East 68th. The one our Family uses, also the one where they put my spine back together seven years ago.
I came for a disability certificate. Something to slip into my transfer paperwork with that foundation in Savannah.
The doctor recognized me before I said my name.
His first question wasn’t ‘how are you’.
“Miss Falcone. Why did you never come back for the second-stage nerve reconstruction?”
I went still. “The what?”
He frowned. Pulled up my file on the screen. Lines of text bloomed across the monitor.
*Spinal cord at L2 — nerve bundle bruised, not fully severed.*
*Reconstruction window: three months post-op.*
*Recovery probability: forty percent or higher.*
*Estimated cost: $480,000. Paid in full.*
Payer: my father. Emergency contact: Luca Romano.
I stared at the invoice. Something small and ugly moved behind my ribs.
So they came this close to giving me my legs back？
The next page loaded. The cancellation form. Date signed: the day before Gia flew to Sicily.
Reason: *Family funds redirected to younger daughter’s overseas placement, Palermo residence, and heiress-track education.*
The doctor sighed and slid his glasses up.
“I begged your mother, Miss Falcone. I told her the window was three months. Miss it, and the nerve seals over. There’s no coming back from that.”
“She said your sister was falling apart. Needed to be sent to Italy immediately. Needed a whole new life.”
“She said the money had to be moved.”
I gripped the printout. My fingertips went cold.
“Your mother cried on the phone. She said—” he chose his words, “…Sienna’s already in the chair. They will never accept a cripple to be the Falcone Heiress. If Gia can’t take that seat, the Falcone name is finished…”
I laughed. Just once. Short and dry.
So my spine wasn’t hopeless after all. But my family still pulled the plug on the surgery.
Four hundred and eighty grand—and they decided my shot at walking was worth less than turning Gia into me.
…
I rolled through the front door with the copies in my lap.
Gia was on the parlor floor, kneeling in a nest of tissue paper and velvet-lined boxes. Voice still small, still soft, still exactly the way she used to sound at fourteen.
“Sienna. You’re home.”
Mama had laid out her welcome present on the marble console table. Three pieces. Arranged like a shrine.
A brand-new custom pistol. Pearl-inlaid grip. Falcone crest engraved along the barrel. Cost more than most people’s cars.
A signet ring. Heavy gold. The Falcone symbol carved into black onyx. The ring Papa wore the day he was made. The ring his father wore before him.
The heiress’s ring.
And a hand-stitched leather shoulder holster. Fitted. Molded. Broken in.
Papa was smiling for the first time in seven years. “Seven years, baby. You’ve earned every piece of it.”
Matteo ruffled her hair.
“She trained so hard in Palermo. Every capo out there signed off on her. She’s ready.”
Luca was at her side, helping her clip the holster over her cashmere sweater, adjusting the strap across her back, making the fit perfect.
Gia picked up the pistol, popped the magazine like she’d been doing it her whole life. Then she checked the chamber, snapped it back and sighted down the barrel at nothing.
Every motion was clean, practiced.
She looked at me over the sight, smiling softly. “Papa taught me the basics before I flew back. Just so I don’t embarrass the family on Sunday.”
Papa’s chest visibly swelled.
I rolled up to the console and set the copies down next to the crest ring.
Paper is a light thing. But when it landed, it hit every face in the room like a fist.
The parlor went dead silent.
Mama’s face changed color. “What were you doing—digging that up?”
I looked at her. Steady. “So seven years ago, I could have walked. Right?”
Gia set the pistol down carefully. Her lashes were already wet.
“Sienna—if you think I stole your surgery, I’ll never wear the ring. I swear it on Nonna’s grave. Tell them, Papa. I’ll refuse it on Sunday.”
Mama pulled her in and cradled her like she was five.
“It wasn’t your fault, baby. It was a decision your father and I made. Together.”
Papa’s face hardened. He waved the housekeeper over. “Get this trash off Gia’s table.”
I looked at them—not panicking the way I’d imagined, but acting as if I’d interrupted their perfect day.
Something inside me finally shattered beyond repair.