Elena Vitiello POV:

The heavy, soundproof door slammed shut behind us, instantly cutting off the terrified whispers of the outside world.

Dante didn't carry me to the plush leather sofa. He bypassed the desk entirely and marched straight toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

He slammed my back against the bulletproof glass. We were a hundred floors up, the dizzying traffic of Manhattan crawling like ants beneath my heels.

The glass was freezing. The cold bit straight through my emerald silk shirt, making me gasp.

Dante slammed his hand against the glass right beside my ear. His towering frame caged me in completely, casting a dark, suffocating shadow over me.

He bowed his head. His chest heaved with heavy, ragged breaths. He inhaled deeply against the crook of my neck, like a feral wolf checking his prey for the scent of another predator.

I didn't cower. I didn't look away. I tilted my head up, my eyes locking onto his with blatant, burning defiance. I had learned the hard way in Chicago that shrinking only invited more pain. Here, in New York, I would never bow my head again.

The fiery rebellion in my eyes snapped his last thread of control.

Dante’s hand shot up, his fingers gripping my jaw tightly. He brought his mouth down and crushed his lips against mine.

It was a brutal, punishing kiss. There was zero tenderness. It was all teeth and tongue and furious possession, a violent attempt to scrub away the air Julian had breathed near me.

I winced at the harsh pressure, but my blood was boiling. I didn't push him away. Instead, my hands flew up and I grabbed fistfuls of his expensive silk tie.

I yanked downward with all my strength. I forced his head lower, deepening the kiss myself, turning his punishment into an aggressive, equal war for dominance.

Dante’s throat worked. A low, guttural groan vibrated in his chest. His other arm wrapped around my waist, crushing my body flush against his hard muscles.

Our rapid, heated breaths fogged the cold glass behind my head. The enclosed office felt like it was going to burst from the sheer force of our colliding adrenaline.

His large fingers slid from my waist, traveling upward. He pressed his palm flat against my ribs, feeling the frantic, chaotic hammering of my heart right through the silk.

He finally tore his mouth away. He rested his forehead against mine, both of us gasping for air.

"Don't look at another man like that," he warned, his voice a dark, jagged growl. "Ever."

I let out a breathless, mocking laugh. "Julian is a lawyer, Dante. He is helping me make money."

Dante’s thumb wiped roughly across my swollen lower lip. "I can give you all of Wall Street. You don't need him."

I slapped his hand away. I reached up and smoothed my messy hair, my eyes blazing. "I don't want what you give me. I only want what I win myself."

Dante stared at me. The feral rage in his eyes slowly melted, replaced by a dark, consuming obsession. He loved this. He loved that I was a queen willing to bleed to build my own throne.

He ducked his head again. His mouth found the sensitive skin of my collarbone. He sucked hard, his teeth grazing my flesh, deliberately leaving a dark, bruising hickey to mark his territory.

I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders. We were seconds away from tearing each other's clothes off.

Then, a timid, trembling knock echoed from the heavy door.

The sound was like a bucket of ice water. I snapped back to reality, placing my hands on his chest and pushing firmly.

Dante scowled. He tightened his grip on my waist, refusing to let go. He turned his head toward the door and let out a vicious, impatient snarl.

"Sir," the secretary’s voice trembled through the thick wood. "I am so sorry. But it is a Code Red diplomatic issue. I must report."

Dante closed his eyes. He took a massive, shuddering breath, forcing the violent lust down into his chest. Slowly, he released my waist.

He shrugged off his custom suit jacket. He draped the heavy, warm fabric over my shoulders, carefully covering my disheveled shirt and the fresh, dark mark on my collarbone.

He walked to his desk and slammed his finger onto the intercom button. "Get in here."

The door opened an inch. The secretary slipped inside, keeping her eyes glued firmly to her shoes. She spoke rapidly, her voice shaking.

"The Chicago Outfit delegation has just touched down at JFK, sir. They are demanding a formal meeting."

Dante’s hands rested flat on his desk. He slowly turned his head to look at me. A slow, terrifyingly cruel smile spread across his face.

"Your old friends are here. Ready to play?"

Luca POV:

The automatic doors of the JFK VIP terminal slid open.

I pushed the brass luggage cart out into the brisk New York air. I wore a five-thousand-dollar bespoke suit, my hair slicked back. Matteo stood beside me, leaning heavily on the cart, wearing a matching suit. We were Lieutenants of the Chicago Outfit. I expected a convoy of black armored SUVs and a dozen armed guards waiting at the curb to escort us.

I scanned the chaotic pickup lanes. Nothing. Not a single vehicle bearing the New York Outfit’s crest.

I yanked at my silk tie, a hot flash of irritation burning my chest. "This is how they treat diplomats? They have no respect."

Matteo winced, shifting his weight. Standing for this long was putting agonizing pressure on the socket of his prosthetic leg. He was breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead.

We stood on the curb for thirty humiliating minutes.

Finally, a beat-up, rusted grey Chevrolet Impala screeched to a halt in front of us.

The window rolled down. A low-level New York street thug wearing a stained leather jacket was chewing gum loudly. He didn't even put the car in park. He just jerked his chin at the backseat.

A wave of intense, blinding humiliation hit me. I took a step forward, my fists clenching, ready to drag the disrespect out of his throat.

Matteo grabbed my sleeve. "Luca, don't. We are in New York. Play the game."

I swallowed my pride. It tasted like ash. We dragged our expensive leather bags to the back of the Chevy and shoved them into the tiny trunk. We squeezed into the backseat. The car reeked of stale beer and cheap cigarettes.

The Impala jerked forward, joining the gridlocked New York traffic. We didn't get a police escort. We didn't get green lights. We sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic for an hour.

The car didn't head toward the glittering skyscrapers of Manhattan. Instead, it pulled into the rotting outskirts of Brooklyn, stopping in front of a rundown, neon-lit motel. The sign flickered, half the letters burned out.

"Out," the thug grunted.

"Where is the Underboss?" I demanded.

"Boss is busy today," the thug said, popping a bubble. He slammed his foot on the gas and sped off, splashing dirty puddle water onto my polished shoes.

I stared at the peeling paint of the motel. My chest heaved. I drew my fist back and slammed it into the metal trash can on the corner. The dent echoed in the empty street. I was the Prince of Chicago, and they were treating me like a stray dog.

We walked into the lobby and got a key. Room 104.

The room smelled like mold and bleach. The carpet was covered in suspicious, dark stains.

I pulled out my phone to call Chicago, to scream at the Underboss for this insult. No service. My phone was completely dead. We were cut off.

We sat in that suffocating room for the entire day. No one called. No one came. We were entirely forgotten by the world.

By evening, the temperature plummeted. A freezing, violent rain began to lash against the city.

The motel window didn't close properly. An icy draft cut through the room. Matteo curled into a ball on the lumpy mattress, groaning in agony. The cold dampness was causing extreme phantom pains and nerve inflammation in his stump.

I stood by the drafty window, watching the bleak, gray rain. A creeping sense of dread settled in my stomach. I was powerless here. I reached into my pocket, my thumb rubbing the velvet box of the cheap diamond ring. Panic tightened my throat.

Suddenly, twin beams of blinding LED light cut through the dark street.

A massive, pristine black Rolls Royce Phantom glided through the flooded street, ignoring the potholes, and stopped dead in front of our door.

An armored SUV parked directly behind it. Four men in long black trench coats stepped out. They moved with terrifying, lethal precision. They wore invisible earpieces and carried themselves like apex predators.

They opened massive black umbrellas, standing in two perfect lines in the downpour.

One of the guards walked up to the motel. He didn't knock. He raised his boot and kicked the flimsy glass door open.

He marched up the stairs and shoved my room door open. He stared at me and Matteo with absolute, freezing disdain.

"Mr. Moretti has granted you ten minutes at Le Bernardin tonight. Be ready."

My heart leaped into my throat. The despair vanished, replaced by a sudden, manic joy. This was it. The motel was just a test of my endurance, a mafia hazing ritual.

I rushed to the bed and pulled Matteo up. I frantically smoothed the wrinkles out of my bespoke suit. I patted my pocket, feeling the ring box.

"See?" I whispered to Matteo, a twisted smile stretching across my face. "I told you she couldn't forget us."

Luca POV:

The black Rolls Royce stopped smoothly under the grand awning of Le Bernardin in Manhattan.

The doorman rushed forward with a massive umbrella, pulling the heavy door open. Matteo and I stepped out into the freezing rain. I tugged at the cuffs of my suit, trying to shake off the damp chill of the motel. This restaurant was the absolute peak of high society, a place even the Chicago elite struggled to book.

I looked at the glass double doors. The restaurant was completely empty of civilians. Instead, two rows of New York Outfit elites stood at attention, their tailored jackets bulging with concealed weapons.

I took a deep breath. I touched the velvet ring box in my pocket to anchor myself. I pushed the glass doors open.

The brilliant light of the crystal chandeliers blinded me for a second after sitting in that dark motel all day.

Then, my eyes adjusted.

In the exact center of the empty dining room, sitting at a table set with fine silver, was a woman.

She was wearing a breathtaking emerald-green velvet dress. It was completely backless. The fabric dipped dangerously low, boldly displaying the jagged, violent silver burn scar that stretched across her shoulder blade.

The moment I saw that scar, it felt like a sledgehammer slammed into my chest. My eyes instantly burned with hot tears. It was the physical proof of my cowardice, but to her, it was a badge of honor.

It was my Elena. The girl I thought was still crying in the mud.

Matteo let out a choked breath beside me. He leaned heavily on his crutch, his eyes dropping to the floor in overwhelming shame.

I took a desperate step forward. "Little bird," I croaked, using her old Chicago nickname. My voice cracked.

The woman slowly turned her head. She held a crystal glass of red wine. Her eyes met mine, and they were completely, utterly dead. She looked at me the way a person looks at a blank wall.

My footsteps faltered. My mind raced, trying to rationalize it. She was just angry. She was playing hard to get.

I forced a desperate, loving smile onto my face and took another step toward her.

That was when I noticed the shadow sitting across the table from her.

He wore a pitch-black, hand-tailored suit. He was leaning back lazily in his chair, twirling a solid silver steak knife between his long fingers.

Dante Moretti lifted his eyes.

The sheer, suffocating weight of his aura slammed into me. It was the look of an apex predator who had slaughtered hundreds of men. It was a terrifying, absolute suppression that made the Chicago Underboss look like a child.

I froze in my tracks. Pure fear spiked in my veins.

Then, I saw the way Dante looked at Elena. It wasn't just protective; it was a dark, sick, consuming possessiveness.

Jealousy and panic exploded in my brain, instantly overriding my fear. My property. He was looking at my property.

"Elena!" I screamed, lunging forward, reaching my hand out to grab her. "Why are you sitting with this monster?!"

I didn't even make it within ten feet of the table.

A bodyguard the size of a tank materialized from my blind spot. He didn't reach for his gun. He didn't need to.

His massive hand clamped around my throat like a vice. With one effortless motion, he lifted my entire body off the carpet.

My feet kicked wildly in the air. My face instantly flushed dark purple as my windpipe crushed. I slammed my fists against his arm, but it was like punching solid iron.

"Luca!" Matteo yelled. He raised his crutch to hit the guard.

Another bodyguard stepped out of the shadows. He delivered a brutal, sweeping kick directly to Matteo’s prosthetic knee joint.

Matteo screamed as his remaining balance was destroyed. He crashed hard onto the expensive carpet, his crutch clattering away.

Through my blurring, oxygen-starved vision, I looked at Elena.

She didn't flinch. Her eyelashes didn't even flutter. She calmly brought the crystal glass to her lips and took a slow sip of red wine.

Dante stopped twirling the knife. He dropped it onto his porcelain plate. *Clink.*

The bodyguard instantly opened his hand, slamming me face-first into the floor like a bag of garbage.

I coughed violently, gasping for air, my lungs burning. I pushed myself up on my elbows, looking up at the two of them on their thrones.

I stared into Elena’s flat, emotionless eyes. The horrifying truth finally pierced my delusion. My princess was gone. She was someone else's Queen.

"Elena," I wheezed, blood dripping from my lip. "Elena, tell me he forced you!"