The Godfather Was Too Proud to Love Me, So I Walked Away Chapter 02

The Godfather Was Too Proud to Love Me, So I Walked Away Chapter 02

Renzo looked at me, like he was waiting for something.

My chest ached. I shot him a glare. “She’s asking you, not me. Cat got your tongue?”

Only then did he turn back to Serena, his voice low and reluctant. “Yeah. It’s for you.”

Serena smiled. “Thank you, Renzo.”

At dinner, everyone revolved around Serena.

My mother—no, my adoptive mother, Mrs. Vitale—asked Serena what she liked to eat. Mr. Vitale asked about her life before. The whole table leaned toward her like sunflowers tracking the sun.

I kept my head down and ate.

It stung a little.

This used to be my table. Mrs. Vitale always put the best cut of meat on my plate first. When she sliced fruit, she would ask if I wanted some. Mr. Vitale would loop me into any conversation with a casual “What do you think, Odette?”

Now nobody remembered I was there.

Fair enough.

Their real daughter had just come home. If I were them, I would prioritize her too.

But there was one thing I had to say. “I got accepted to Marchetti. Classes start next month. I’m going.”

Mrs. Vitale froze. Mr. Vitale looked visibly startled.

Renzo looked up too.

The shock on his face was impossible to miss.

“You’re leaving now?” His voice came out louder than usual.

“Why? You have a problem with that?”

He seemed to realize his reaction was a bit much and pulled back.

“The family just got Serena back. If you leave the country now, what are people going to think?”

“Everyone’s going to say the Vitales took their real daughter back and shipped the adopted one off. How are your parents supposed to explain that?”

Mr. Vitale was already nodding. “Renzo has a point.”

Mrs. Vitale chimed in. “Odette, can’t you wait until next time? I’m not saying you can’t go. It’s just the timing…”

I poked at the food on my plate.

My heart soured.

But I didn’t argue.

Renzo took my silence as surrender. The tension in his brow visibly eased.

After dinner, I went to my room and opened my laptop. “Confirm your offer” sat at the bottom of the page.

This acceptance letter had cost me three years of late nights building a portfolio.

Why the hell should I give it up?

One click.

Accepted.

Mrs. Vitale knocked and came in carrying a mug of warm milk.

“Odette, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Your room—would it be okay if Serena moved in?”

She avoided my eyes, clearly uncomfortable. “I know you’re used to it here. But Serena just came back, and I don’t want her to feel like she’s the outsider in her own home.”

A pause, then: “You’ve had everything since you were little. Serena’s had nothing.”

[Here it comes!]

[She’s about to play the victim card, ask Mrs. Vitale if having a real daughter means throwing her away.]

[Then she’ll cry and scream until Mrs. Vitale takes it back.]

I didn’t even look up. I kept typing. “Sure. When do you want me to move?”

If the only way to keep a room was to cry for it, I didn’t want it.

There were plenty of rooms in this house. I could sleep in a different one every night if I felt like it.

Mrs. Vitale clearly hadn’t expected me to agree so easily.

“The room on the third floor is nice too.”

“Tell me what style you like, and I’ll have it redecorated for you. How’s that sound?”

I thought for a second. “Don’t bother. I’ll make do for a few days.”

Mrs. Vitale’s expression shifted.

“Odette, I’m not trying to push you out…”

I cut her off immediately. “I know.”

Nothing was worse than someone looking at me with that mix of pity and guilt.

Like I was some charity case.

“It’s just a room change. You don’t have to act like you’re exiling me.”

Mrs. Vitale looked at me for a long time.

Finally, all she said was: “I’ll have someone help you pack.”

After the door closed, my fingers went still on the keyboard.

I turned and looked around the room.

My nose burned.

The next morning at breakfast, Mr. Vitale brought up the welcome gala.

“Odette, you’re a beauty influencer, right? Why don’t you do Serena’s makeup for the event?”

I glanced at Serena.

She looked nervous. Probably expected me to refuse.

“Sure.”

I scooped a spoonful of oatmeal. “But just so we’re clear, my professional styling rate isn’t cheap. I’m waiving the fee this time as a family courtesy.”

Mr. Vitale: “…”