Seraphina POV

The howling wind of the New York blizzard faded into absolute silence, only to be violently replaced by the rhythmic, mechanical thrum of a diesel engine.

I gasped, my lungs expanding painfully. Instead of freezing snow, I inhaled the stifling, heavy stench of rust, cheap oil, and lake water. I shot up from the lumpy mattress, my hands frantically touching my face. There were no hollow cheeks. No jutting collarbones. The crimson silk gown was gone, replaced by a simple, faded cotton dress.

I was sixteen again. The cramped, rust-stained cabin of the Lake Michigan cargo freighter rocked beneath me.

As I stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling, the memories of my past life crashed into my skull. I knew exactly where I was, and more importantly, I knew exactly what was about to happen.

Back in Chicago, in her lavish bedroom at the Moretti estate, my cousin Rosalia had already sealed my fate. She was consumed by jealousy that a lowly *Soldier*'s daughter raised in the countryside was arranged to marry Damien Falcone. Rosalia craved the title of *Mafia Queen*. To her, I was a thief stealing her crown.

I knew that days ago, she had handed her greedy *Associate*, Polly, fifty dollars in cash. *Ruin her face,* Rosalia had ordered. In our world, a scarred woman was damaged goods, an unforgivable insult to the Falcone name. The marriage would be voided. For this dirty work, Polly was promised another two hundred dollars and a respectable job for her mother, Isabella.

A soft knock on the rusted metal door pulled me from the dark abyss of my memories.

Polly slipped inside, a sickly sweet smile plastered on her face. She held a steaming cup of tea. "Drink up, Fia. It will help with the seasickness."

Laced with heavy sedatives. I knew the taste of that poison intimately. I played the naive country girl, offering her a grateful smile. I brought the cup to my lips, pretending to swallow the bitter liquid before slumping back against the pillows, feigning a deep, drug-induced sleep.

Hours bled by. The only sound was the churning of the black waves against the hull.

Then, the cabin door creaked open.

Polly crept into the room, the dim light catching the edge of a sharp paring knife in her hand. She leaned over the bed, her eyes fixed on my cheek, raising the blade to carve Rosalia's jealousy into my flesh.

My eyes snapped open.

I wasn't the helpless lamb she expected. I was a woman forged in eleven years of Damien's hell. Before Polly could react to the cold, murderous intent in my gaze, I rolled to the side. My hand gripped the heavy oak slat I had quietly pried from the bedframe hours ago.

I swung it with brutal force, catching her squarely in the ribs.

Polly collapsed with a wet gasp, the knife clattering to the floor. Panic replaced the greed in her eyes as she scrambled backward. "Fia, wait! Please—"

I didn't let her finish. My adoptive father, a retired *Enforcer*, had taught me how to survive, even if I had forgotten those lessons in my past life. I snatched the knife from the floor and lunged. I grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked her head back, and dragged the blade deeply across her throat.

Hot blood sprayed over my hands and the rusted floorboards. Polly choked, her eyes wide with terror as the life drained out of her. I watched her die, feeling absolutely nothing but the cold satisfaction of my first *Vendetta*.

I dragged her lifeless body toward the corner of the cabin, grabbing a frayed rope attached to a discarded, heavy iron anchor. I tied it securely around her waist. My muscles burned as I heaved her dead weight up to the filthy, open porthole, shoving her through.

With a heavy splash, the black, freezing waters of Lake Michigan swallowed her whole.

I leaned against the freezing metal wall, catching my breath, the blood drying sticky on my fingers. I thought I had executed the perfect, unseen kill.

But as I glanced out the porthole, a spark of orange flared in the pitch-black night. Up on the windswept upper deck, a man in a dark trench coat stood leaning against the railing. Silas Vance. *The Ghost*. He hadn't shouted. He hadn't run to the crew. He simply stood there, the cherry of his cigarette glowing as he stared down at my cabin window, his eyes burning with a dark, morbid fascination.

Seraphina POV

The glowing cherry of Silas Vance's cigarette burned through the freezing dark, a silent testament to my damning mistake. He had seen everything.

Before I could even step away from the rusted porthole, the heavy metal door of my cabin clicked shut. I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Silas stood in the cramped space, the shadows clinging to his dark trench coat. He had moved without a single sound—*The Ghost*.

My hand shot under the lumpy mattress, my fingers wrapping around the cold hilt of my hunting knife.

"I wouldn't," Silas murmured, his voice a smooth, lethal drawl. His eyes, dark and obsessively sharp, dropped to the blood drying on my faded cotton dress. "Sloppy work with the floorboards, Fia. But the anchor? Inspired."

"Get out," I hissed, raising the blade.

He didn't flinch. Instead, he took a step closer, the scent of rain and expensive tobacco filling the stifling room. "If I scream, the crew comes. If I go to the police, you hang. But we both know the real threat is your family. Should I tell the Moretti *Capo* that his niece is butchering his assets?"

My grip on the knife tightened until my knuckles turned white. A family inquiry meant the basement, the torture tools, and a slow, agonizing death.

Silas reached into his coat. I braced for a gun, but he tossed a thick manila envelope onto the blood-stained mattress.

"Fifty thousand in bearer bonds," he said casually. "Consider it an investment. You have a fire in you, Fia. A vengeance I recognize. I'm going to help you burn it all down, and in return, you let me watch."

It wasn't a request. It was a collar. I stared at the fortune, then at the madman offering it. I needed resources to destroy Damien Falcone, and Silas was handing them to me. I slowly lowered the knife, sealing a fragile, dangerous deal with the devil.

Hours later, the freighter groaned against the Chicago pier. Freezing rain lashed at my face as I stepped onto the gangway. The docks were a chaotic mess of shouting men and flashing lights.

Chicago Police.

"Nobody leaves!" a burly CPD officer barked, shoving past a deckhand. "Commissioner Vance's orders. We're searching every cabin for contraband."

Panic seized my throat. My cabin. The blood.

The officer marched toward me. "Step aside, girl. Which room is yours?"

"You don't want to do that," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I am under the protection of the Moretti family."

The cop sneered, unimpressed. "Moretti means nothing to the Commissioner. Move."

He reached for my arm. I didn't shrink back. I channeled every ounce of the *Mafia Queen* I had been forced to become in my past life. I squared my shoulders, lifting my chin with aristocratic disdain.

"Touch me," I said, my voice dropping to a glacial, carrying pitch, "and you will be explaining to Damien Falcone why you laid hands on his future wife."

The officer froze. The name *Falcone* hung in the freezing rain like a loaded gun.

"The New York Five Families do not take kindly to disrespect," I continued, my eyes boring into his. "Search my room, and I will personally have Damien call the Mayor's office to discuss your career."

The cop swallowed hard, the color draining from his face. He weighed the risk of a mafia war against a routine raid. "My apologies, Miss," he muttered, stepping back into the rain.

Damien POV

The rain drummed a steady, muted rhythm against the roof of the black Duesenberg Model J. From the shadows of the pier, I watched the scene unfold through the rain-slicked window.

"She's a liability, Boss," Angelo grunted from the driver's seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel. "Using the Falcone name to bully beat cops. We should terminate the arrangement before she causes a real diplomatic incident."

I leaned back against the plush leather, a faint smile touching my lips. "You're missing the beauty of it, Angelo."

"Beauty?"

"She tested the waters with the Moretti name first," I pointed out, my eyes fixed on the slender girl standing tall in the freezing rain. "When that failed, she didn't panic. She dropped the Falcone name with the exact precision of a loaded weapon. How does a country girl from Wisconsin understand the power hierarchy between Chicago and New York so flawlessly?"

Angelo frowned, shifting in his seat. "She's still a problem."

"She's a puzzle," I corrected softly. The dull, transactional nature of this arranged marriage had just vanished, replaced by a sharp, sudden intrigue. "Call my mother, Angelo. Tell her any talk of breaking the engagement is indefinitely suspended."

"Boss—"

"Drive," I ordered, my gaze lingering on Seraphina until the shadows swallowed her.

Angelo put the car in gear, the heavy engine purring as we pulled away from the pier, heading straight into the dark, treacherous streets of Chicago.

Seraphina POV

I was barely two blocks from the pier when the staccato roar of Tommy guns tore through the freezing rain.

The sound of a mafia hit was unmistakable. I ducked into the shadows of a narrow alley, my heart pounding against my ribs. Through the downpour, I saw the black Duesenberg Model J—Damien’s car—shattered by bullets, crashed against a brick wall. Men were shouting, returning fire, but in the chaos, I saw a tall figure stumble into the adjacent alleyway, clutching his side.

Damien Falcone.

A dark, twisted instinct propelled me forward. He couldn't die. Not tonight. Not by the hands of some nameless Chicago thugs. Damien Falcone was *mine* to destroy. I needed him alive so I could watch the light leave his eyes when I finally took my revenge.

I found him leaning against a rusted fire escape, his breathing ragged. Without a word, I pulled his uninjured arm over my shoulder. He was dangerously heavy, but the adrenaline of pure hatred fueled me. I dragged him through the labyrinth of the slums until we reached a forgotten Moretti safe house—a decaying apartment my adoptive father had shown me years ago.

I kicked the door shut and hauled him onto the squeaking iron bed. The room smelled of damp rot and dust. I ripped open his ruined, blood-soaked suit jacket. The bullet had grazed his ribs, but that wasn't what terrified me. His skin was radiating a blistering heat, his chest heaving with a sudden, violent fever. It was an old illness, a hidden weakness of the untouchable *Underboss* that no one in the Five Families knew about.

"Stay still," I muttered, turning toward the rusted sink to find a rag.

Before I could take a step, a hand clamped around my wrist like a steel vise.

I gasped as Damien yanked me backward with terrifying, brute force. I crashed onto the mattress, and in a fraction of a second, his heavy arms wrapped around me, pinning me flush against his burning chest.

"Let me go!" I hissed, thrashing against his hold.

But his grip only tightened, desperate and suffocating. His eyes fluttered open, but they were unfocused, glazed with delirium. He wasn't seeing the peeling wallpaper of the safe house. He was looking at a ghost.

"Fia..." his voice was a raw, broken rasp against my ear.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat.

"I'm sorry..." he murmured, burying his face into the crook of my neck, his feverish breath scalding my skin. "I had to... I'm sorry. Don't leave me again..."

The words hit me like a physical blow, shattering the air in my lungs. *Don't leave me again.* My mind spun into a violent tailspin. This wasn't a hallucination of the present. This was an apology from the past—from the life where he had locked me away, where my escape had ended in blood. How could he possibly know?

"I'm not her," I choked out, fighting the sudden, treacherous sting of tears. "Damien, let go!"

He didn't hear me. He clung to me like a drowning man to wreckage, his apologies bleeding into incoherent, agonized whispers until his body finally went slack, pulling him into unconsciousness.

I shoved him off, my hands trembling violently. My meticulously built wall of hatred had just sustained a massive crack. I couldn't process it. I couldn't afford to. He was bleeding out.

I left him on the bed and slipped back into the storm. It took me an hour to track down an underground pharmacist I remembered from my past life, trading Silas Vance's money for morphine, iodine, and bandages.

When I finally returned to the dim, narrow hallway outside the safe house, the shadows shifted.

A massive figure stepped into the flickering light of the single bulb. Angelo.

His dark coat was soaked, his face a mask of pure, murderous fury. As Damien’s most loyal *Soldier*, losing his *Underboss* was the ultimate disgrace. His cold eyes dropped to the medical box in my hands, and I saw the exact moment he condemned me. To him, I was the rat who set the trap.

"Move, Moretti," Angelo snarled, his voice vibrating with lethal intent.

"He needs a doctor, not a watchdog," I said, keeping my voice steady as I stepped in front of the door. "If you move him now, he dies."

Angelo didn't care. He lunged forward, a battering ram of muscle and rage.

Instinct took over. I pivoted, using my father's training to strike the nerve cluster on his forearm, attempting to deflect his grab. A flash of genuine shock crossed Angelo's face—he hadn't expected the country girl to fight back.

But surprise wasn't enough to stop a Falcone enforcer.

With a vicious grunt, Angelo recovered instantly. He grabbed me by the collar of my coat and hurled me aside. My back slammed brutally against the dirty plaster wall, knocking the wind out of me.

Before I could slide to the floor, Angelo raised his heavy boot and kicked the flimsy wooden door dead center. The lock splintered with a deafening crack, the door flying open to reveal the vulnerable, unconscious man on the bed.