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!"

Elena Vitiello POV:

I slowly lowered my wine glass. The crystal clinked softly against the table.

I looked down at Luca, writhing on the floor like a crushed insect. For the first time since he walked in, a flicker of emotion crossed my face. It was pure, unfiltered disgust.

Seeing him groveling brought back the stench of the Chicago warehouse. He had looked exactly like this when he begged me to forgive him for choosing Sofia, crying crocodile tears while my heart shattered.

Luca saw the shift in my expression. His twisted mind immediately misinterpreted my disgust as fear of the man sitting across from me.

He scrambled to his knees, his expensive suit ruined. "Elena, listen to me! I see it now. I see what a monster Sofia is. I know how wrong I was!"

He reached into his pocket with trembling hands. He pulled out his phone and frantically swiped at the screen.

He flipped the phone around, shoving the screen toward me like a trophy.

It was a photograph. The image was violently bloody. Sofia was lying on a concrete floor. Her face, the beauty she had used as a weapon, was slashed to ribbons, covered in deep, raw lacerations. Both of her legs were bent at horrifying, unnatural angles, the bones clearly shattered.

"I did this!" Luca bragged, his voice hysterical and desperate. "I punished her for what she did to you! I destroyed that bitch for you, Elena!"

Matteo groaned from the floor, clutching his broken leg. "We paid the price, Elena. Please, just come home with us."

Luca stared at me, his eyes wide with sick hope. He genuinely believed that presenting me with a mutilated body was a "blood oath." He thought this gruesome picture would instantly erase my scars and buy back my love.

The restaurant fell into a dead, heavy silence.

Across from me, Dante’s posture shifted. A flash of pure, unadulterated killing intent ignited in his black eyes. He had sworn to peel the skin off whoever hurt me. Now, the idiot on the floor had just handed him the names.

I looked at the bloody screen. I didn't feel fear. I didn't even feel the vindictive thrill of revenge. I only felt a hollow, crushing sorrow for the absolute stupidity of men who thought blood and violence could be traded for a woman's soul.

I pushed my chair back and stood up. The heavy emerald velvet of my skirt swept across the carpet.

I walked slowly toward Luca. I stopped right in front of him, looking down at his pathetic, hopeful face. I was a god staring at a rat in the sewer.

Luca’s face lit up. He thought he had won. He reached his free hand toward his pocket, trying to pull out the cheap ring box.

I lifted my foot.

I slammed the needle-thin stiletto heel of my shoe directly onto the wrist of the hand holding his phone.

I put my full weight into it. The sharp metal heel pierced his skin, grinding directly against his bone.

Luca let out a bloodcurdling scream. His fingers flew open. The phone clattered to the floor, the bloody image of Sofia flickering once before the screen went black.

I bent at the waist, leaning close to his face. My eyes were completely devoid of warmth.

"Do you honestly think," I whispered, my voice slicing through his screams like a razor, "that breaking a piece of trash pieces my forgiveness back together?"

Luca sobbed, sweat pouring down his face as my heel dug deeper. "I love you! I did it because I love you!"

I let out a short, mocking laugh. "Your love is cheaper than the garbage on the New York streets."

I leaned in an inch closer, destroying his last delusion. "You didn't ruin Sofia because you love me. You ruined her because your fragile ego couldn't handle the fact that you were played by a cheap bitch."

Luca’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. His breath hitched. I had just ripped away the last moral high ground he was clinging to.

Matteo opened his mouth to defend him. I shot Matteo a glare so cold and lethal he instantly clamped his mouth shut, trembling.

I lifted my heel, pulling it out of Luca’s flesh. I turned my back on them and walked gracefully back to Dante’s side. Looking at them any longer made my eyes feel dirty.

I picked up the silk Hermes napkin off the table. I carefully wiped the smear of Luca’s blood off the edge of my stiletto.

When I was done, I tossed the crumpled silk over my shoulder. It landed directly on Luca’s face.

Luca clutched the perfume-scented silk, his psychological defenses shattering completely. Snot and tears mixed on his face as he sobbed uncontrollably. He finally understood. The girl from Chicago was dead.

Dante slowly pushed his chair back and stood up to deliver the final sentence.

"You disgust me more than the mud on my shoes."