He Chose His Adopted Sister, So I Left the Mafia Chapter 12

He Chose His Adopted Sister, So I Left the Mafia Chapter 12

After the explosion, the Coast Guard searched the 

harbor for two full days. 

Selena’s body was found. 

Adrian was never located. 

Some people said they saw him swept out toward 

open water just before the blast. 

Others said the Morettis secretly took him away 

afterward. 

I never tried to find out which version was true. 

From that day on, I never saw him again. 

The Moretti Family came to see me three times. 

The first time, it was the old Don’s adviser. 

He brought an official statement. 

The Family publicly admitted that every accusation made against me five years ago had been based on falsified records. 

The second time, it was the Family’s attorney. 

He brought documents formally restoring my 

professional reputation, along with a 

compensation agreement from the medical 

center. 

The third time, it was Adrian’s personal assistant. 

He carried only a small box. 

Inside was my father’s silver family crest, along with a printout of a text message Adrian had left before going to the warehouse. 

“Erin, I finally understand that a person’s last name isn’t what makes them worthy of being believed. I understood it far too late. You don’t have to forgive me. I only hope that from now on, you never doubt yourself because of me again.” 

I put the paper in a drawer. 

I pinned the crest beside a photograph at the back 

of my office. 

I didn’t reply to anyone. 

A few months later, news came from Chicago. 

The Moretti Family was under federal 

investigation for multiple money laundering. 

offenses and violations involving its medical 

operations. 

Several joint projects were suspended. 

The Family’s internal power structure was 

reshuffled. 

As for whether Adrian was dead or alive, the 

Morettis never made any public statement. 

And I never asked. 

I had already spent too much of the past five years 

asking why. 

Why hadn’t he believed me? 

Why had everyone thought that, because I wasn’t born into their Family, they had the right to trample all over me? 

Why had I been the one who saved his life, only to become the person he thought least worthy of protecting? 

Eventually, I understood. 

Some questions don’t have answers. 

Or maybe the answers simply don’t matter 

anymore. 

What mattered was that I had left a place where I 

was forced to keep proving my worth just to 

receive the most basic respect. 

The sign on my office door now read: 

“Erin Carter, MD 

Postoperative Rehabilitation & Trauma 

Management” 

I could no longer stand for more than ten hours at 

a stretch. 

I could no longer perform the most delicate 

microsurgical suturing. 

But I was still a doctor. 

I created rehabilitation plans for patients recovering from surgery. I told people standing up from a wheelchair for the first time that losing their balance once didn’t mean their recovery had 

failed. And when they were ready to give up, I told them what I’d been through myself. 

Every time I finished, someone would ask, “So 

were you really able to walk again?” 

I would stand up and slowly take a few steps. 

“See? I’m walking now.” 

One evening, someone knocked on my office door. 

Lucas leaned against the frame. 

“You’re done for the day.” 

I glanced at my computer. 

“One last chart.” 

“You said that yesterday too.” 

He walked over and closed the folder in front of 

1. me. 

“Doctors have to follow doctor’s orders too. No 

sitting too long. No standing too long. Eat your 

meals on time.” 

I glared at him. 

“And who gave you those doctor’s orders?” 

“I did.” 

“Practicing medicine without a license.” 

“Then report me.” 

I couldn’t help laughing. 

Dinner was already waiting for us when we got 

home: grilled fish, vegetable soup, and the soft 

bread I’d been able to eat more easily lately. 

After dinner, we walked slowly along the Stanley 

Park Seawall. 

The wind in Vancouver was gentler than Chicago’s, 

but if I walked too long, my legs still began to 

ache. 

Lucas never rushed me. If I slowed down, he 

slowed down with me. If I needed to rest, he 

stopped and stayed beside me. 

When we reached the water, my legs suddenly 

went weak for a moment. 

He naturally reached out and steadied me. 

He didn’t grip me hard. 

He simply supported me, steady and sure, the way he had countless times over the past five years. 

I leaned against his shoulder and watched the last trace of sunset disappear into the ocean. 

“Lucas.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I used to think my life was over when I could no 

longer stand at an operating table.” 

His hand tightened around mine. 

“And now?” 

I thought about it. 

“Now I think I just ended up on a different road.” 

In the distance, wave after wave rolled toward the shore. 

Behind us, our footprints stretched in an uneven trail along the seawall. 

I didn’t look back. 

My body would never completely return to the way it had been before I was injured. 

My trust in those people would never return either. 

But I no longer needed my life to return to what it used to be. 

I had my own name. 

My own clinic. 

My own life. 

And someone beside me who would never decide 

whether I deserved to be believed based on my 

last name, my background, or my status. 

Everything that happened in Chicago belonged to 

my past now. 

From here on out, I only wanted to live at my own 

pace, with the people who truly chose to stay 

beside me.