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.

My room resembled a skeleton, stripped down to the bone.

The closets gaped open, empty and hollow. The shelves were bare, gathering the first specks of dust. Three large suitcases stood like sentinels by the door.

My mother swept into the room. She looked elegant, as always, but weighed down by a profound sadness. She pressed a slip of paper into my palm.

"Dante Moretti," she said, her voice low. "This is his private number. He will meet you at the hangar in New York."

"Does Father know?"

"He knows you need to leave," she replied, her eyes searching mine. "He knows this city is too small for his anger and your pain. And he knows that if you stay, you will eventually kill those boys, or they will kill you with their stupidity."

She leaned in and kissed my forehead, a lingering touch.

"Be a Queen, Elena. Not a martyr."

Through the open window, I heard the crunch of tires rolling over the gravel driveway.

"They're here," I said.

My mother nodded once, a sharp, final gesture, and left the room.

I dragged my suitcases downstairs, the wheels bumping rhythmically against the steps.

Luca and Matteo were waiting in the foyer. Their hands were still bandaged from where they had cut themselves in the hospital. Their eyes widened when they saw the luggage.

"Whoa," Matteo said, letting out a low whistle. "Packing heavy for the dorms? It's only twenty minutes away, El."

They still thought I was moving to the University of Chicago dorms. They thought this was just another semester, another phase where they could hover around me and pretend nothing had changed.

"Just the essentials," I lied smoothly.

"Let's go," Luca said, stepping forward to grab the handle of the largest bag. "We'll help you set up. Sofia wanted to come help decorate, but she had a... thing."

We walked out to the waiting car. The driver was already hoisting the bags into the trunk.

Suddenly, Luca's phone rang.

It was a shrill, piercing sound that cut through the morning air.

He answered it instantly.

"Sof? Slow down. What happened?"

The color drained from his face. His knuckles went white around the phone.

"Where? We're on our way."

He hung up, his hand trembling.

"Sofia was in a crash," he said, breathless. "On I-90. She says her neck hurts."

Matteo dropped my suitcase. It hit the pavement with a heavy, sickening thud.

"Is she bleeding?" Matteo demanded, his voice tight with panic.

"She's scared," Luca said, his eyes wild. "We have to go."

They looked at me then.

I was standing there with my broken arm in a sling, my burns still throbbing under my clothes, and my entire life packed into bags at my feet. I was leaving forever, and they didn't even know it.

"Elena, take the town car," Luca said, already backing away toward their SUV. "We have to get to her. The ambulance might take too long."

"Go," I said. My voice was flat.

"We'll come by the dorms later!" Matteo yelled over his shoulder. "We'll bring pizza!"

They sprinted to their car. They tore out of the driveway, leaving black tire marks scarred onto the stone.

They didn't even check if I was okay. They ran to a minor fender bender for a girl who had hurt me, and left me standing at the funeral of our friendship.

I climbed into the town car, the silence of the interior wrapping around me.

"The airport," I told the driver. "Private terminal."

I pulled out my phone.

I opened the group chat one last time.

I typed: I leave you both to her.

Sent.

I popped the back of the case and removed the SIM card.

I rolled down the window.

With a sharp snap, I broke the little plastic chip in half and flicked it onto the driveway.

It disappeared into the grass, gone forever.

"Drive," I said.

Luca Rossi POV

The waiting room at Mercy Hospital was finally empty.

Sofia was fine.

The doctors said it was mild whiplash, nothing permanent, but she was wearing a neck brace that looked three sizes too big. It swallowed her whole, making her look like a fragile doll that had been carelessly tossed aside.

"I'm so glad you came," she whispered, her fingers tightening around Matteo's hand. "I thought I was going to die."

I checked my watch.

It had been four hours.

My stomach tightened. We missed the dorm move-in window.

"We should go check on Elena," I said, the guilt already itching under my skin. "She's probably pissed we didn't show up to help unpack."

"Buy her flowers," Sofia suggested weakly. "She loves lilies."

We dropped Sofia off at her apartment with a nurse and drove straight to the University of Chicago. We stopped at a high-end florist and bought a massive bouquet of white lilies. They were crisp, pristine, and ridiculous. The kind that said I'm sorry I'm an idiot, please forgive me.

We pulled up to the main residential gate, the engine of my car purring impatiently.

"Call her," Matteo said, staring at the brick buildings.

I dialed her number.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

I frowned, pulling the phone away from my ear to stare at the screen.

"Service is down," I said, though the bars on my screen were full. "Let's just go in."

We walked up to the security booth.

"Delivery for Elena Vitiello," I said, flashing my winning smile—the one that usually opened doors. "Freshman dorms."

The guard typed into his computer, his face bored.

He frowned.

"Vitiello?" he asked. "Spell it."

"V-I-T-I-E-L-L-O," I said slowly, leaning in. "Daughter of the Underboss. You should have her flagged as VIP. Check the donor list if you have to."

The guard shook his head, unimpressed by my tone.

"I have no record of an Elena Vitiello enrolled here."

My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

"Check again," Matteo growled, slamming his hand against the window ledge. "She transferred her enrollment months ago."

"I'm looking at the active roster, son," the guard said, turning his monitor slightly away. "She's not here."

We didn't wait for him to finish. We ran back to the car.

I drove to the Estate. I broke every speed limit, weaving through traffic like a madman. Something was wrong. The silence from her phone wasn't just anger. It was absence.

We screeched up to the iron gates of the Vitiello mansion, tires smoking.

The family guards were there. Armed. They stepped in front of the car, rifles raised in a way that wasn't ceremonial.

"Open the gate!" I yelled, leaning out the window. "We need to see Elena!"

The head of security, a man named Rocco who had taught us how to shoot when we were barely tall enough to hold a gun, walked up to the driver's side.

His face was stone.

"Turn around, boys," Rocco said.

"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice rising. "Is she inside?"

Rocco looked at the flowers in the passenger seat. He looked at them like they were garbage.

"Miss Elena has left the state," Rocco said.

The world stopped spinning.

"What do you mean left the state?" Matteo asked, his voice cracking under the weight of the words. "For how long?"

Rocco adjusted his grip on his rifle.

"Indefinitely."

"Where did she go?" I screamed, slamming the steering wheel.

"Not your concern anymore," Rocco said coldly. "You are not welcome on Vitiello land. Turn around. Or we open fire."

We turned around. We drove to the registrar's office in the city, the only place that would have her records. Matteo dragged the clerk out of his chair by his collar.

"Check it again!" Matteo roared.

"She withdrew!" the clerk squeaked, terrified. "Months ago! The transcript request was sent to... here!"

He pointed at the screen.

I looked. The words blurred for a heartbeat, then sharpened into a nightmare.

Columbia University. New York.

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

"New York," Matteo whispered, his face draining of color. "Luca. That's Moretti territory."

It wasn't just a different school.

It was a different world. It was the lion's den.

The New York Famiglia and the Chicago Outfit had a truce, but it was as thin as ice. Soldiers didn't just walk into New York.

And Elena... Elena had walked right into the arms of the enemy.

"She belongs to us!" Matteo roared, kicking the heavy oak desk.

"She did," I said, staring at the screen where her name blinked next to a city that felt a million miles away.

"Until we chose the rat."