Alexia POV

The doctor pronounced the death of my career with clinical detachment.

He weaponized words like *nerve damage* and *crushed metacarpals*, laying them out between us like surgical tools. He pointed to the light box, showing me X-rays where the delicate architecture of my bones looked like nothing more than crushed gravel.

I didn't cry. Tears were a luxury I couldn't afford. I simply sat on the edge of the hospital bed and stared at the sterile white wall, listening to the silence where the music used to be.

Jacob arrived later.

He swept into the room smelling of expensive cologne, crisp linen, and the cloying sweetness of Cassandra's perfume.

"It's for the best," he said.

He didn't ask how I was. He stood by the window, checking his watch as if my trauma were merely a scheduling conflict.

"The family needs stability right now. Cassandra was... shaken. She has important connections with the suppliers. It was a strategic decision."

"Strategic," I repeated. My voice sounded rusty, like a hinge that hadn't been oiled in years.

"You understand," he said. It wasn't a question; it was a verdict. "You are the Don's wife. You make sacrifices."

Sacrifices.

I looked down at my right hand. It was encased in a heavy cast—a useless, plaster lump.

"We are going home," he said.

Home.

The fortress. The cage.

Weeks blurred into a gray haze. When the cast finally came off, it revealed a scarred, twisted claw where my hand used to be. I practiced with my left hand in the dead of night, the music coming out clumsy and angry. It was the only way I could breathe.

Tonight was the gala. A celebration of a new smuggling route disguised as high society.

I wore black—mourning clothes for a life not yet dead. I ghosted through the periphery of the ballroom, holding a glass of water I had no intention of drinking.

Jacob commanded the center of the room. Cassandra was draped on his arm, wearing a red dress that looked like spilled blood. She was laughing, her head thrown back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat.

She was wearing a diamond necklace that cost more than my mother's entire estate.

"She looks radiant, doesn't she?"

I turned. A cousin of the Bell family—my own blood—stood there. He didn't look at me with pity. He looked at me with the embarrassment one feels for a failed investment, a broken tool.

"Yes," I said, my voice hollow.

Jacob waved me over. The summons was subtle—a slight tilt of the head—but absolute. I walked towards them, and the crowd parted. They looked at my twisted hand. They looked at Cassandra's flawless diamonds.

"Alexia," Jacob said. He smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes; it stopped at his teeth. "Cassandra was just telling us about her ordeal during the ambush."

"It was terrifying," Cassandra said, clinging to Jacob's bicep as if she were fragile. "I thought we were going to die. Thank god Jacob was there."

She looked at me then. Her eyes were bright with a predatory gleam.

"Oh, Alexia," she cooed. "I've been meaning to ask. That brooch you always wear. The old silver one."

My hand flew to my chest instinctively. It was pinned there, hidden under a fold of my dress.

"What about it?" I asked.

"I think it would go perfectly with this dress," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Jacob promised me a gift for... surviving. I want that."

The room went quiet. The air grew thin. This wasn't about jewelry. This was a public execution.

Jacob looked at me. "Give it to her, Alexia."

He said it casually. Like he was asking for the salt.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. This brooch was the last thing my mother gave me before she died—before the Bell family sold me to the Cummings to settle a debt.

"No," I said.

The silence stretched. It became heavy, suffocating.

"Excuse me?" Cassandra laughed, a nervous, tinkling sound that shattered the tension.

"It belonged to my mother," I said, my voice frighteningly steady. "It is not family property. It is mine."

Cassandra's lip trembled. She looked up at Jacob, playing the victim perfectly. She whispered something in Italian—a dialect I wasn't supposed to understand.

*"She is useless now, Jacob. Why do you let her insult me?"*

Jacob's jaw tightened. He looked at me with cold, profound disappointment.

"We will discuss this later," he announced to the room. "Alexia is tired. She is still recovering."

He was dismissing me. Sending the child to her room.

"I am tired," I said, holding his gaze. "I'm going to the monastery tomorrow. For a retreat."

Jacob didn't even look at me. He was already pouring champagne for Cassandra.

"Go," he said, turning his back. "Pray for the family."

I walked away. I felt their eyes on my back. I felt the searing heat of their judgment.

I went to my room and packed a small bag. I took the brooch off my dress and pinned it to the inside of my coat, close to my heart.

I looked at the calendar on the wall.

Today was our anniversary.

Ten years.

And he hadn't even remembered.

Alexia POV

The monastery was a tomb of cold air. It smelled faintly of beeswax and ancient, damp stone.

I scrubbed the limestone floors until my knees bruised. I peeled mountains of potatoes. With my left hand, I played simple hymns on the chapel organ.

The nuns didn't ask questions. They knew who my husband was. In this part of Italy, everyone knew the Cummings family.

My right hand ached constantly, a dull, throbbing reminder of what I had lost. I had no pain medication. Jacob controlled the accounts, and I had left with nothing but the clothes on my back and a few euros.

I was hungry. Not the kind of hungry you feel when you skip lunch. It was the kind of hungry that hollows you out from the inside.

I remembered my mother. She used to skip meals so I could have piano lessons. She believed art would save me.

She was wrong. Power saves you. Money saves you. Art just makes you feel the pain more acutely.

It was raining the night he came.

I saw the headlights first, slicing through the gloom. A convoy of black SUVs cutting through the darkness like sharks in deep water. They stopped at the iron gates.

Jacob got out. He held a large black umbrella, shielding himself from the downpour while I stood exposed. He strode toward the main building with the air of a man who believed he owned God himself.

I met him in the courtyard. I didn't want him inside. I didn't want him tainting this place.

"You look thin," he observed, his voice devoid of warmth.

He handed me a box wrapped in crushed velvet.

"It's cold," he said. "Put this on."

I opened it. It was a shawl. Cashmere. Embroidered with a single red rose.

A memory flashed behind my eyes. Years ago, before the bitterness rotted us, he had brought me a rose from the garden. He had smiled then. A real smile.

"Thank you," I said, my voice stiff. I didn't put it on.

"Are you ready to come home?" he asked. "Anton misses you."

"Does he?" I asked. "Or does he miss having someone to do his laundry?"

Jacob sighed, the sound impatient. "Don't be difficult, Alexia. I have news. I pulled some strings. There is a position at the Vienna Royal Academy. A guest professorship. You can go. You can teach."

My breath hitched. Vienna.

"You remember," he said, stepping closer, invading my space. "You told me once. You wanted to play in the Golden Hall."

He was rewriting history.

"I told you I wanted to find my sister in Vienna," I said, the old wound tearing open. "I wanted to play so she might hear me. She was taken when I was six."

Jacob blinked. The romantic mask slipped for a fraction of a second.

"Right," he said, recovering quickly. "Well. The position is yours. If you come back. If you sign the papers."

Papers. There was always a contract.

Suddenly, his phone rang.

The sound shattered the rhythm of the rain. He pulled it out. His face changed instantly. The boredom vanished. Panic replaced it.

"Cassandra?" he barked into the phone. "Slow down. Where are you?"

He listened, and his knuckles turned white around the device.

"I'm coming," he said. "I'm coming now."

He hung up. He looked at me, but he didn't truly see me.

"She's been taken," he said. "The rival family. They have her."

He turned and ran. He sprinted back to the car. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't mention Vienna. He left the cashmere shawl falling into the mud, a discarded peace offering.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A burner phone I had bought with my potato-peeling money.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Did you enjoy the show?" a distorted voice asked.

"Who is this?"

"Jacob is chasing a ghost," the voice said, cold and metallic. "Cassandra isn't kidnapped. But you are about to be."

"What?"

"Look behind you."

I turned. Two men in masks were standing by the chapel door.

"You are the bait, Mrs. Cummings," the voice said. "Let's see who he chooses when the timer starts. You are in a warehouse. There is a bomb. Cassandra is 'missing'. It's the ultimate loyalty test."

I didn't fight as rough hands grabbed me.

I knew the answer to the test.

I knew who he would choose.

Alexia POV

I woke up to the rhythmic, incessant sound of beeping.

It wasn't a bomb. It was the steady cadence of a heart monitor.

I was in a bed. Stiff, sterile sheets. The acrid bite of antiseptic in the air.

I was alive.

I tried to sit up, but a searing, white-hot pain sliced through my side. I gasped, the air catching in my throat.

The door opened. It wasn't a nurse.

It was Jacob.

He looked wrecked. His shirt was rumpled, the top button undone, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He walked over to the bed and sat down, his movements heavy.

He took my hand—my good hand.

"You're awake," he said, his voice rough.

"The bomb," I croaked, my throat feeling like it was filled with glass.

"You got out," he said. "Just in time. The blast... it threw you clear."

He paused. He looked down at our joined hands, his thumb brushing my knuckles.

"Your kidney was ruptured, Alexia. It was bad. You were bleeding out."

I waited, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"I gave you mine," he said.

The room tilted on its axis. Jacob gave me a kidney?

The man who left me in a burning car? The man who sprinted away to save his mistress while I was trapped?

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you are my wife," he said, his eyes locking onto mine. "Because we are family."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a document.

"The doctors say you will recover," he said. "But we need to secure the future. The explosion... it drew attention. The Commission is asking questions. They think I can't control my house."

He laid the paper on the bed between us.

"Sign this," he said. "It's a statement. It says you were targeted because of my enemies. It reaffirms your loyalty to the Cummings Syndicate. It grants me power of attorney over your Bell family inheritance. To 'safeguard' it, of course."

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

He didn't give me a kidney to save me. He gave me a kidney to own me.

He put a piece of himself inside me so I could never be free of him. It was the ultimate brand. A biological leash.

"And Cassandra?" I asked. "Was she kidnapped?"

Jacob looked away, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "It was a misunderstanding. She is safe. She is... resting. The poor girl was very traumatized by the thought of you being hurt."

Liar.

I saw the news on the TV mounted on the wall. It was muted, but the headline was screaming in bold font: *Mafia Don's Mistress unharmed in daring rescue attempt.*

There were photos of them hugging.

He saved her "ghost." He let me blow up.

"If I sign," I said, keeping my voice flat, "I want to go to Vienna."

"Of course," he said quickly. "Once you are healed."

I took the pen. My left hand was shaking.

"Do you love her?" I asked.

"Alexia, don't start," he warned, his tone dipping into frustration.

"Do you?"

"She needs me," he said. "You... you are strong. You have always been strong."

Strong.

That was the word men used when they wanted to excuse their neglect. A compliment wrapped around a betrayal.

I signed the paper.

I signed my name.

But I had already made a decision.

While I was recovering, drifting in and out of consciousness before the surgery, I had access to the hospital Wi-Fi. I had sent an email.

It contained the ledger scans I had made months ago. The ones showing Cassandra skimming money from the drug shipments. The ones showing Jacob recording the private meetings of the other Dons.

It violated Omertà. The code of silence. The penalty was death.

I handed the paper back to him.

"Thank you for the kidney, Jacob," I said. "I will take good care of it."

He smiled. He thought he had won.

"Rest now," he said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. "I have to go check on Cassandra. She's having a panic attack."

He left.

I lay back against the pillows. I felt the fresh, tender scar on my side.

*Tick tock, Jacob.*

The email was scheduled to send to the Commission and the press in exactly one hour.

You wanted a loyalty test?

Here is my answer.