Where the Olive Trees Weep

She pulled out her own phone and confidently dialed a number right in front of my face.

It was answered instantly. A cold male voice came through the speaker. "I'm handling family business. I'll call you back."

The call was over in two seconds. His voice had been distant, indifferent. I hadn't had time to say a word, but I knew it was Oliver.

Rosina yanked my hair, smashing her phone against my face. "Did you hear that? This is my man's number. It seems your little act wasn't very thorough!"

The diamond on her ring sliced a deep gash across my cheek. I winced, shoving her away in a burst of pain.

"Is it so unusual for him to have two numbers? Why don't you just call the number and ask?"

Seeing me fight back, Rosina’s three friends swarmed me, eager to prove their loyalty.

"You're just some whore, and you're talking like you're his wife! How dare you touch Rosina. She's going to be Mrs. Falcone. You're just asking for a beating!"

"How could you just pick some random number and claim it's Mr. Falcone's? Are you that stupid?"

"Look in the mirror. What gave you the confidence to steal someone else's man? Wait until Mr. Falcone exposes your lie. You'll regret it!"

Rosina looked down at me, a confident smirk playing on her lips. "Then go ahead, call it. Let's see how many numbers my man has."

The number saved in my phone was a private line. Oliver had created it just for me.

He was so terrified of missing a call from me that he never silenced it, not even when handling family business.

The "Amore" label had been his idea. He’d threatened to cut off my grandfather’s treatment if I didn't save it that way.

So I was sure he would answer.

Seeing my calm expression, Rosina’s face darkened. She snatched my phone and dialed the number.

I was certain that once the call connected, our relationship would be proven, and they would finally leave.

But the call didn't go through. An automated message announced the number was unreachable.

In that instant, I froze. The result left me in shock.

Rosina let out a breath of relief, now utterly convinced I was a liar. She slapped me again, hard.

Her long nails dug into my skin, leaving fiery scratches on my face. The sting was unbearable.

"Dare to dream, huh? You think you're going to be Mrs. Falcone? Who knows whose soldato's number you're calling?"

"He won't even answer your call. No wonder you're so desperate. Too bad for you, you've hit a dead end today."

Her lackeys, now certain I was just a desperate mistress, closed in on me. They were ready to make me pay.

"Rosina, teach this shameless whore a lesson so she knows her place."

"Yeah, let's show all those other cheap women out there what happens when they try to seduce Mr. Falcone!"

They pulled out their phones and started recording.

I turned my head to avoid the camera, but they yanked my hair, forcing me to face the lens as they slapped me and hurled insults.

"This bitch got plastic surgery to look like me and snuck into my boyfriend's estate, trying to get into his bed. I caught her in the act. We have to teach her a lesson! She even made a mess of the place, painting all these ugly trees. Perhaps she was hoping my man would praise her art. But she'll be the one paying to have it all stripped! Don't you know my man hates olive trees? He loves vibrant, beautiful roses! He even got angry once when I wore an olive-branch pin. And you? You filled the whole estate with them!"

Hearing this, her friends grew excited, their movements fueled by a vicious energy. They began tearing the olive trees from the garden. They crushed the new saplings under their high heels and snapped the larger branches with their bare hands.

I scrambled to my feet, desperate to stop them. "No! Don't touch my trees!"

Rosina kicked me back to the ground. She planted her heel on my stomach, pressing down hard.

The pain was so sharp I couldn't move.

She sneered. "These stupid trees aren't worth anything. If they're ruined, they're ruined. This is my man's estate; who gave you permission to act like this?"

The trees weren't valuable because of money. Oliver had planted every single one himself.

I remembered a gardener once broke a small branch while trimming. Oliver broke the man’s arm in response.

I wasn’t grieving for these cruel people, but for the olive trees. They had been my lifeline, pulling me through the darkest days of my depression.

After I watched my parents get murdered, Oliver had spent ten years planting those trees, doing anything he could to help me heal.

Now, they were being destroyed right in front of me. Watching them die was like being pushed back into that same abyss.

It didn't stop there. They went inside and threw buckets of paint against the walls, destroying all my paintings.

I was pinned to the ground, my eyes bloodshot. I felt like a fish on dry land, gasping for air.

My suffering was a stark contrast to the sinister look on Rosina's face.

I prayed Dorothy would return soon.

She drove down the mountain for fresh supplies every day, a trip that usually took an hour. By my calculations, she should be back any minute.