That night, I had to make an appearance at the Social Club.

It was a mandatory gathering for the Outfit's younger generation, a place where alliances were forged over scotch and secrets. If I didn't go, it would look like weakness. It would look like I was hiding. And tonight, I could afford nothing less than absolute armor.

I wore black. A severe, high-necked, long-sleeved dress that fit like a second skin. It was elegant, intimidating, and somber.

Mourning clothes.

When I walked in, the music didn't stop, but the atmosphere shifted. The air grew heavy. Whispers started slithering through the room like smoke.

"Where are her dogs?" someone muttered near the bar.

"I heard they have a new owner," another voice laughed, low and cruel.

I ignored them, keeping my chin high and my spine steel-straight. I walked past the groups of laughing heirs and heiresses, straight to the high-stakes poker room in the back.

I took the open seat at the center table. The dealer, a man who had known my father for twenty years, nodded respectfully and slid the cards across the green felt.

Texas Hold'em.

I peeled up the corners of my hand.

Two Jacks.

I stared at the painted faces of the Knaves. The servants. The foot soldiers. They stared back at me with hollow, mocking eyes, their painted smiles freezing in place.

"Are you in, Elena?" the dealer asked, his voice cutting through my trance.

I looked across the room just as the double doors swung open.

The room went silent.

Sofia walked in. She was flanked by Luca and Matteo, walking in a tight, protective phalanx.

She was wearing a short, bright red dress. It was tight, cheap, and screamed for attention. She was clinging to Luca's arm like a parasite, her head resting on his shoulder.

Matteo walked slightly ahead, scanning the room, playing the tough bodyguard. But his gaze didn't sweep the room for threats to me. It kept snapping back to her, checking if she was happy, if she was safe.

They didn't even look for me.

They had abandoned their post.

The entire room watched them. The disrespect was palpable, heavy enough to choke on. The Underboss's daughter—the Vitiello Princess—was sitting alone at a card table, exposed and unguarded, while her sworn protectors were parading a nobody around like she was the Don's wife.

I felt the weight of a hundred eyes on me, waiting for a reaction. Waiting for the tearful outburst. Waiting for the Princess to crumble.

"I'm folding," I said.

My voice was calm, carrying clearly over the sudden silence of the room.

I threw the two Jacks face up on the green felt.

"I'm discarding the trash from my hand."

The dealer looked at the cards—the two treacherous servants lying uselessly on the table. He looked up at me, understanding flashing in his eyes.

"You're out of the game, Miss Vitiello?"

I stood up, smoothing my black skirt with deliberate, icy precision.

"I'm done playing games," I said. "I'm changing tables."

I walked toward the exit. I had to pass them to leave.

As I approached, Sofia saw me. She smirked, a flash of victory on her face. She squeezed Luca's arm tighter, staking her claim.

Luca looked up. When his eyes met mine, he flinched. Shame flickered in his gaze for a microsecond—a ghost of the boy who used to carry my books—before he hardened his jaw and looked away.

Matteo glared at me, his chin jutting out, daring me to speak, daring me to make a scene.

I didn't say a word.

I didn't slow down.

I walked right past them, leaving them in the warmth of the club while I stepped out into the cold Chicago night.

They thought they had won because they held the attention of the room. They didn't realize that by leaving me unguarded, they hadn't just insulted me. They had signaled to the entire city that the Vitiello Princess was vulnerable.

And in our world, vulnerability was an invitation for blood.

I looked up at the moon, sharp and white in the sky.

"Enjoy the game, boys," I whispered to the empty street. "Because you just folded a Royal Flush for a pair of twos."

The waterfront was a chaotic sea of bodies for the Outfit's annual Fourth of July celebration. The air was thick with the heavy, cloying smells of grilled meat, cheap beer, and the sharp, metallic tang of gunpowder.

I shouldn't have come. My stomach was twisting in knots, and the memory of the Social Club still burned like acid in my throat. But my father had been adamant.

"You are a Vitiello," he’d said, adjusting his cufflinks. "Show your face, Elena. Show them you are strong. Hiding makes you look like a victim."

So I stood by the iron railing of the upper deck, watching the dark, churning water of Lake Michigan below. I felt anything but strong. I felt like a ghost haunting a party I wasn't invited to.

"Wine?"

I turned at the voice.

Sofia was standing there, holding two glasses of deep red vintage. She was smiling, but it was a smile that didn't reach her eyes; they remained cold, calculating, predatory.

"A peace offering?" she asked, tilting her head. "The boys said you were upset."

I didn't reach for the glass. "Get away from me," I said, my voice low and vibrating with warning.

"Oops," she chirped.

With a deliberate, casual flick of her wrist, she tilted her hand.

The red wine splashed across the front of my white silk dress.

It wasn't a clumsy spill. It was a targeted strike. The cold liquid saturated the fabric instantly, rendering the expensive material translucent. It clung to my skin like a second layer. My bra, the curve of my stomach—everything was suddenly visible under the harsh, unforgiving dock lights.

It wasn't just embarrassing; it was a violation. A calculated move to humiliate me in front of the soldiers, the families, the entire organization.

"Oh my god!" Sofia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in a flawless performance of shock. "I'm so clumsy! I'm so sorry, Elena!"

Heads turned. The low hum of conversation shifted into sharp whispers. Whistles cut through the air from the civilian side of the barrier, hungry and crude. Catcalls erupted, each one a small, sharp stone thrown at my dignity.

I crossed my arms over my chest, shielding myself as a hot, shameful blush scorched my cheeks. I looked around for help.

"Cover her!"

Luca's voice boomed over the crowd, a command filled with righteous fury.

He and Matteo rushed toward us from the bar, their movements synchronized. They were already stripping off their suit jackets—the ones with the Vitiello crest embroidered on the silk lining.

Thank God, a foolish, desperate part of me thought. They’re finally stepping up. They see what she did.

I reached out, my hand trembling slightly, waiting for the heavy wool of Luca's jacket to settle over my shoulders, to shield me from the prying eyes.

But he brushed past me.

He didn't even glance in my direction.

He wrapped the heavy jacket around Sofia.

"Are you okay?" Luca asked her, his voice laced with a deep, tangible concern as he checked her hands. "Did the glass cut you? Let me see."

Matteo was right behind him, draping his own jacket over Sofia's shoulders as well, doubling the warmth, doubling the protection around her.

"She's shivering," Matteo noted, his voice rough with worry as he rubbed Sofia's upper arms. "It was an accident, Sof. Don't cry."

I stood there.

Wet.

Exposed.

Shivering violently in the wind whipping off the lake.

They covered the girl who spilled the wine. They left their Princess naked to the world.

"Let's go watch the fireworks," Sofia giggled, her voice trembling theatrically as she snuggled into the scents of their jackets—into my protection. "I want to light one to calm my nerves!"

They led her away toward the launch zone, their backs to me. They formed a protective wall of broad shoulders and expensive wool around her, leaving me utterly alone.

I stood frozen, the wine drying sticky and cold on my skin, each gust of wind a fresh torment. I should have left. I should have run.

But I watched.

I watched them descend to the lower dock. Sofia picked up a Roman Candle. It was a large tube, industrial-grade, meant to be staked firmly in the ground for safety.

"Be careful, Sof," Luca laughed, indulging her like she was a precocious child.

She lit the fuse.

Sparks hissed and flew into the night. She laughed, spinning around in a drunken circle. "Look at me!"

Then, she stopped spinning.

She leveled the tube.

It wasn't random. She wasn't dizzy. She aimed the mouth of the cannon directly at the upper deck.

Directly at me.

I saw it then, sharp and clear in her eyes, illuminated by the fizzing fuse. It wasn't a prank. It wasn't a mistake. It was pure, unadulterated malice.

It was a hit.

"Sofia, no!" Matteo shouted, finally realizing the danger, but he made no move to lunge for her, no move to knock the tube away.

Boom.

A ball of green fire shot out.

It smashed into the iron railing inches in front of me, exploding in a shower of sparks that stung my face like angry hornets. I flinched back, stumbling over my heels.

Boom.

The second one didn't miss.

It struck my left shoulder with the force of a physical blow, a hammer made of heat and light.

The pain was instantaneous and absolute. The silk of my dress, soaked in the alcohol of the wine, caught fire immediately.

"Ah!"

A raw, animal scream tore from my throat. I slapped uselessly at the flames climbing up my neck.

The fire ate into my skin, devouring it. The air filled with the sickening scent of burning hair and cooking meat—my meat.

I dropped to the ground, rolling, thrashing, trying desperately to smother the inferno that was consuming me.

Through the agony, through the choking smoke, I looked down at the dock.

Luca and Matteo were moving.

But they weren't running to me.

They were grabbing Sofia, pulling her away from the still-sputtering firework.

"Did the kickback hurt you?" Luca was asking her, frantically checking her hands for burns, for splinters, for anything.

"I'm scared! It went off wrong! It malfunctioned!" she was crying, burying her face in his chest, wrapped in the jacket that should have been saving me.

They checked her for scratches while I burned alive.

They hesitated.

In our world, hesitation is a death sentence. And their hesitation was the bullet meant for me.

A stranger—a waiter—rushed forward and threw a bucket of ice water over me.

The fire hissed and died, leaving steam rising from my charred flesh. The sudden cold was another shock, another layer of pain on top of the burn.

But the damage was done. My skin was ruined.

Yet, as I lay on the wet concrete, staring up at the stars spinning dizzily above me, breathing in the smell of my own burnt skin, I realized the burn on my shoulder was nothing.

The real scar was the one they had just carved into my soul.

They let me burn.

And from those ashes, Elena Vitiello died.

And something else—something cold, hard, and unforgiving—began to rise.

The first thing I registered was the sickening smell of burnt meat.

It took a few sluggish seconds for my brain to fight through the haze of morphine and register the horror of it. That smell was coming from me.

From my own left shoulder.

My eyes cracked open, fighting the heaviness of anesthesia. The room was white, sterile, and biting cold. It was the private clinic the Outfit used for bullet wounds and stabbings, not for burns caused by fireworks wielded by jealous, petty girls.

I tried to sit up.

A sharp, searing agony ripped through my upper arm and neck, stealing the breath from my lungs. I gasped, falling back against the stiff pillows as the room spun.

"Careful, Miss Vitiello."

The doctor was standing by the monitors, his back to me. He didn't turn around.

"Second-degree burns," he said, his voice void of sympathy. "We had to perform a debridement to remove the dead tissue. The skin grafts will scar. Permanently."

Scar.

I looked at the thick bandage covering my shoulder. I was marked. Ruined.

The door creaked open.

I didn't need to look to know who it was. The air in the room shifted, becoming heavy with guilt and the acrid scent of stale smoke.

Luca and Matteo walked in.

They looked like wrecks. Their tuxedos were disheveled, their ties gone, their eyes bloodshot and wide with panic. But they weren't injured. Because they hadn't been the target.

"El," Luca breathed, taking a hesitant step toward the bed.

He reached for my hand.

I pulled it away instinctively. The movement sent a shockwave of pain through my shoulder, but I would have ripped my stitches open before letting him touch me.

He flinched as if I’d slapped him.

"We brought you something," Matteo said, his voice rough. He held out a folded piece of paper.

It was pink stationery. It smelled like cheap vanilla perfume.

"It's from Sofia," Matteo said. "She wrote it in the waiting room. She's devastated, Elena. She hasn't stopped crying."

"Crying," I repeated. My voice sounded like shards of glass grinding together.

"It was an accident," Luca said quickly, desperation leaking into his tone. "The tube malfunctioned. The kickback... it scared her. She didn't mean to aim it at you."

"If I shot her in the chest," I asked, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles, "would an apology stop the bleeding?"

"That's different," Luca snapped. "Don't talk like that."

"Why?" I looked at him, my eyes dry and cold. "Because she's fragile? And I'm just the Vitiello furniture you can burn?"

"She's innocent," Luca insisted, his voice rising. "She's terrified you're going to retaliate."

"She should be."

The voice didn't come from me.

It came from the doorway.

My father, the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit, filled the frame. He was wearing his long trench coat, his face a mask of unforgiving granite.

Luca and Matteo snapped to attention, their spines straightening out of deep-seated instinct.

"Sir," Matteo said, his voice trembling.

My father didn't look at them. He looked at me. He looked at the bandages. Then, slowly, terrifyingly, he turned his gaze to the boys.

"You had one job," my father said. His voice was quiet. Lethal. "Taste her food. Watch her back. Take the bullet."

"It happened fast," Luca stammered.

"You were protecting a rat while my daughter burned," my father said. He walked into the room and stood at the foot of my bed. "Hand over your guns."

"Sir?" Matteo paled.

"Badges. Guns. Now."

They hesitated for a fraction of a second, then placed their Glocks on the bedside table with shaking hands. The metal clattered against the wood.

"You are suspended," my father said. "You are stripped of your rank. You are not Soldiers. You are liabilities."

He turned to his personal guard standing in the hall.

"Find the girl. Sofia Ricci."

"No!" Luca stepped forward, forgetting himself. "Sir, please. It was an accident!"

"Correct the mistake," my father said to the guard.

Correction. In our world, that meant a beating. Or worse.

"She didn't mean it!" Matteo pleaded.

"Get out," my father said.

Luca looked at me, his eyes begging me to intervene. To save her.

I turned my head and looked out the window at the gray Chicago skyline.

I let the silence hang them.

An hour later, the silence didn't last.

The door burst open, shattering the quiet. The guards outside should have stopped her, but they knew the boys. And the boys were with her.

Sofia rushed into the room, her face blotchy, her eyes wide with a frantic, performative terror. Luca and Matteo were right behind her, flanking her like human shields.

"Elena!" Sofia screamed. "Please! You have to call him off!"

She threw herself against the railing of my bed. The impact sent a shockwave of white-hot agony through my burns. I gritted my teeth, swallowing a scream.

"Get her off my bed," I rasped.

"Your father sent men to her apartment," Luca said, his voice shaking. "They're going to hurt her, El. You have to stop it."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because she's sorry!" Matteo yelled.

Sofia was sobbing now, great heaving breaths that sucked all the air out of the small room. "I'll do anything," she cried. "I'll pay for it. I promise."

She grabbed a fruit knife from the tray of untouched dinner on the side table. It was a dull, serrated blade meant for sawing through apple skin, not flesh.

"I'll pay the debt!" she shrieked.

She dragged the blade across her forearm.

It barely broke the skin. A thin, insipid line of red beaded on her arm. It looked like a cat scratch.

"Oh god!" she wailed, dropping the knife and clutching her arm as if it had been severed at the elbow.

"Sofia!" Luca gasped.

He grabbed her arm, inspecting the scratch like she was hemorrhaging. Then he looked at me. His eyes were full of accusation.

"Is this what you wanted?" he spat. "Blood?"

"That's not blood," I said, looking at the pathetic wound. "That is a papercut."

Luca's jaw tightened.

He picked up the fruit knife.

He didn't hesitate. He gripped the blade in his palm and yanked it out.

Blood—dark, rich, arterial blood—welled up instantly and dripped onto the linoleum floor.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"I bleed for her," Luca said, staring into my soul.

Matteo stepped forward. He took the bloody knife from Luca. He sliced his own palm open.

"We pay her debt," Matteo said.

The metallic smell of iron filled the room, overpowering the sharp scent of antiseptic.

I looked at their hands.

These were the hands that had sworn to protect me. They had cut those same palms ten years ago to swear eternal loyalty to the Vitiello name.

Now, they were cutting them to save a social climber who had burned me for sport.

Something inside my chest, the last tether holding me to them, finally snapped. It wasn't a loud noise. It was the quiet, final click of a lock sliding into place.

"You didn't pay her debt," I said softly.

I looked at the blood pooling near their expensive shoes.

"You just defaulted on your own."

I pressed the call button for the nurse.

"Get out," I said. "And take your trash with you."

Luca wrapped his handkerchief around his bleeding hand. He looked at me with a mix of defiance and pity.

"You've changed, Elena," he said. "You're cold."

"Winter is here," I whispered.

They helped Sofia out of the room, cooing over her scratch, leaving their blood staining my floor.