Elena Vitiello POV:

Three months later, the first freezing rain of winter lashed against the windows of the Chicago estate.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I looked at my reflection. Thick, silver keloid scars crawled across my left shoulder and down my collarbone, replacing the flawless skin I had been born with. I felt no pity. I pulled a high-necked black cashmere sweater over my head, hiding the damage.

In the center of my bedroom sat a large metal fire basin. It was filled to the brim with ten years of diaries, letters, and photographs.

I struck a match. I dropped it into the basin. The flames caught instantly. I watched the fire eat through a picture of Luca and me from three years ago, turning his smiling face into black ash.

The bedroom door creaked open. My mother walked in. Her face was pale, her expression tight with suppressed anxiety. She held a black velvet box in her hands.

She set the box on my vanity. Inside sat a first-class ticket to JFK Airport and a brand-new untraceable cell phone.

She turned to me. She raised her arms, her eyes welling with tears, wanting to pull me into a hug.

I stepped back. My shoulder muscles locked tight. Her silent suffering, her years of bending to my father's will, suffocated me. I would not let her weakness touch me today.

I turned my back on her. I grabbed the handle of my single black suitcase. The wheels made a dull, heavy thud against the hardwood floor as I walked out of the room.

I did not look back at the burning fire basin.

I walked down the grand staircase. The main hall was a flurry of activity. Two workers covered in freezing mud were struggling to roll up a massive, heavy Persian rug near the entrance.

One of the workers looked up. The dirt on his face could not hide the deep purple bruises and the hollowed-out cheeks. It was Luca. Beside him, shivering violently, was Matteo.

For three months, my father had stripped them of every human dignity. They were forced to do the lowest, most humiliating labor on the estate, put on display for every passing soldier to mock.

Luca saw me on the stairs. The dead, empty look in his eyes suddenly vanished. A sickening, desperate joy exploded across his face.

He dropped his end of the heavy rug. The estate butler yelled at him, but Luca ignored it. He sprinted toward the bottom of the staircase.

Foul-smelling mud dripped from his torn clothes onto the pristine marble floor. He looked entirely out of place, like a rat crawling into a palace.

He looked up at me. His voice trembled with a pathetic, self-deceiving softness. Are you going to college? Are you moving to the dorms?

Matteo limped over, rubbing his frostbitten, cracked hands together. He flashed a sickeningly sweet smile. We can help you carry that to the car, Elena.

I stopped on the third step. I looked down at them. I did not see the boys who had sworn to protect me. I saw two beggars.

I tightened my grip on the handle of my suitcase. My expression remained completely blank. I offered them nothing. No anger. No hatred. Just pure, suffocating indifference.

Luca took my silence as permission. His eyes lit up. He reached out his filthy, mud-caked hand toward the handle of my suitcase.

Just as his fingertips brushed the plastic, a sharp, annoying ringtone erupted from his pocket.

Luca froze. He pulled out a phone with a completely shattered screen. The name Sofia flashed through the cracks.

He answered it. Sofia's hysterical, crying voice poured out of the speaker. She screamed that she had been clipped by a delivery truck at an intersection in the slums.

All the color drained from Luca's bruised face. The desperate joy in his eyes was instantly swallowed by blind panic.

He looked up at me. His mouth opened and closed. He looked like he wanted to apologize, but no sound came out.

Matteo grabbed his arm, panicking. She might be bleeding, Luca. We have to go.

Luca ripped his hand away from my suitcase. Just like he had done a thousand times over the last ten years, he chose her. He turned around and sprinted toward the estate gates, running back out into the freezing rain.

I watched their pathetic, muddy figures disappear into the storm. A slow, icy smirk curled the corner of my lips.

I carried my suitcase down the final three steps. I walked out the front doors and approached the black armored SUV waiting in the driveway.

I opened the door and slid into the leather seat. I looked at the driver in the rearview mirror.

"To the private airport. Don't look back."

Luca POV:

I ran until my lungs felt like they were bleeding. The freezing Chicago rain lashed against my face, mixing with the mud and sweat already caked on my skin.

Beside me, Matteo was wheezing, dragging his feet through the dirty puddles. We finally reached the intersection in the slums where Sofia had called from.

She was sitting on a wet crate under an awning. I dropped to my knees in the mud, my heart hammering against my ribs, expecting to see broken bones or blood.

She was perfectly fine. She was pouting. She pointed to a tiny, superficial scrape on her knee. She complained that a truck had splashed water on her and she had tripped over the curb trying to dodge it.

I stared at the tiny red mark on her knee. The rain dripped from my hair into my eyes.

Suddenly, a massive, suffocating weight dropped onto my chest. My mind flashed back to the grand staircase at the estate just twenty minutes ago.

I saw Elena standing there in her black sweater. I remembered the way she held her suitcase. I remembered her eyes. They weren't angry. They weren't disappointed. They were completely empty.

A cold sweat broke out over my entire body, freezing me from the inside out. I couldn't breathe. My throat closed up.

Sofia yelled at me to get her a cab, but I couldn't hear her. I grabbed Matteo by his wet jacket. I hauled him to his feet. I turned and ran toward the university district.

We burst through the glass doors of the luxury student housing building near Chicago University. We dripped foul-smelling mud all over the expensive lobby carpet.

The security guard behind the front desk immediately stood up, his hand dropping to the baton at his belt. He looked at us like we were rabid dogs.

I slammed my hands on the front desk. My voice shook uncontrollably. Elena Vitiello. Tell me what room she is in.

The guard frowned in disgust. He typed the name into his computer. He looked back up at me, his face hard. There is no one registered here by that name.

Matteo lunged forward. He grabbed the guard's collar across the desk. That's impossible! She is the daughter of the Vitiello Underboss! Check again!

The guard shoved Matteo back violently. He grabbed his radio and called for backup.

It felt like a physical blow to the back of my head. The room spun. I shoved the lobby doors open and ran back into the storm.

A yellow cab was idling at the curb. The driver took one look at our filthy clothes and locked the doors.

I didn't think. I grabbed a loose brick from a nearby planter and smashed it through the driver's side window. Glass shattered everywhere. I reached in, unlocked the door, and ripped the screaming driver out of his seat, throwing him onto the wet pavement.

I jumped into the driver's seat. Matteo scrambled into the back. I slammed my foot on the gas pedal.

I ran five red lights. I swerved through traffic, nearly flipping the cab twice. I drove like a madman until I reached the towering iron gates of the Vitiello estate.

The gates were locked tight. I threw myself out of the cab and slammed my bloody fists against the iron bars. I screamed her name until my vocal cords tore.

The heavy side door opened. Four fully armed estate guards stepped out. They raised their assault rifles, pointing the black barrels directly at my chest.

The captain of the guard walked forward. He looked at me with pure contempt. Take one more step, and I will put a bullet between your eyes.

I grabbed the iron bars, pressing my forehead against the cold metal. Where did she go? I begged, the rain washing the blood down my face. Where is her dorm?

The captain let out a cruel, mocking laugh.

She isn't going to school, you idiot, the captain said slowly, enjoying every second of my destruction. She boarded a private jet half an hour ago. She has left Chicago. She is never coming back.

My knees gave out. I collapsed into the freezing mud. I dug my broken fingernails into the cracks of the pavement, screaming a sound that didn't even sound human.

Beside me, Matteo curled into a ball in the dirt, weeping uncontrollably. We had thrown away our only salvation for a lie.

***

Elena Vitiello POV:

The private Gulfstream jet broke through the thick gray clouds. The violent turbulence smoothed out instantly, replaced by a blinding, brilliant sunlight that flooded the cabin.

I sat in the leather seat, holding a crystal flute of champagne. I looked out the window. The vast, sprawling coastline of New York City stretched out below me, glittering like a diamond net.

The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, announcing our final descent.

I took a slow sip of the cold champagne. I looked down at the tarmac, where a massive line of black armored vehicles was already waiting.

"New York, here I am."

Elena Vitiello POV:

The Gulfstream G650 rolled to a smooth halt on the private tarmac at JFK Airport.

The heavy cabin door unsealed with a hiss. I stepped out onto the top of the stairs. The biting wind of a New York autumn hit me instantly, carrying the sharp, salty scent of the Atlantic Ocean.

I wore black stiletto heels and a heavy wool coat over my shoulders. I walked down the metal stairs, keeping my spine perfectly straight.

Spread across the gray concrete was a defensive formation of ten black Cadillac Escalades.

Thirty men stood around the vehicles. They wore tailored black suits and earpieces. They did not slouch. They did not chat. They stood like statues, radiating the cold, organized violence of the New York Outfit.

Standing at the very front of the convoy was a man who commanded the entire space just by breathing.

He was well over six foot three. He wore a dark, custom-tailored trench coat that flared slightly in the wind. He held an unlit cigar between his teeth.

Dante Moretti. The uncrowned king of New York.

His face looked like it had been carved from marble by a violent sculptor. His jaw was sharp, his cheekbones high, and his ash-green eyes tracked my every movement with the predatory focus of a starving wolf.

I stopped exactly three steps away from him. I did not look down. I was raised to be the perfect mafia daughter. I knew that showing fear to a predator was a death sentence. I met his stare head-on.

The air between us felt thick, heavy with an electric tension. The thirty guards around us seemed to stop breathing.

Dante reached up. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and tossed it carelessly to the lieutenant standing beside him.

He took a step forward. His massive frame blocked out the sun, casting a long, dark shadow entirely over my body.

I tilted my chin up slightly, holding my ground.

A microscopic smirk tugged at the corner of Dante's mouth. He seemed satisfied that I hadn't flinched.

He didn't say a word. He turned on his heel, walked to the center armored Maybach, and grabbed the door handle. He pulled the heavy, bulletproof door open himself.

A ripple of shock went through the guards. Shoulders stiffened. Eyes widened. The Reaper of New York did not open doors for anyone.

I didn't hesitate. I lowered my head and slid into the back seat. The interior of the car smelled strongly of cedar wood, expensive leather, and the faint, metallic tang of gun oil.

Dante climbed in right behind me. The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the wind and plunging the cabin into absolute silence.

The Maybach was massive, but with Dante sitting next to me, the space felt suffocatingly small. His body heat radiated across the leather seat.

The convoy lurched into motion.

The heater in the car was blasting. Within five minutes, sweat prickled at the back of my neck. My burns throbbed under the heavy fabric. Without thinking, I reached up and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my wool coat to let the heat out.

The heavy lapels parted. The edge of my black silk camisole shifted.

Thick, white medical bandages peeked out from under the silk, covering my collarbone and disappearing down toward my chest.

Dante had been looking out the window. His head snapped around. His ash-green eyes locked onto the white gauze.

The temperature in the car plummeted. The air grew so thick with killing intent I could practically taste the blood in my mouth.

Dante leaned in. His massive body crowded mine. He raised his right hand.

I stopped breathing. My muscles locked tight.

He extended his index finger. He traced the exact outline of the bandage, his rough fingertip hovering less than a millimeter above the white gauze. He never actually touched me, but I felt the heat of his skin searing into my flesh.

He lifted his gaze. His eyes were no longer green. They were black with pure, unadulterated rage.

"Whoever did this to you, I will skin them and lay their hides at your feet."