Matteo Vitiello POV:

The ceiling of the basement apartment dripped a steady rhythm of filthy, brown water into a rusted bucket. The walls were thick with black mold, and the air smelled of cheap vodka and stale urine.

I woke up on a mattress that had lost its springs a decade ago. A sickening, sharp pain shot through my right leg. I gasped, my hand flying down to grab my calf, only to grasp empty air.

The phantom pain was a relentless, invisible saw cutting through nerves that no longer existed. My leg had been amputated below the knee months ago, but the ghost of it tortured me every single morning.

I dragged my trembling hand over my face, feeling the thick, greasy beard covering my hollow cheeks. I reached for the nightstand, knocking over an empty vodka bottle, and grabbed the plastic pill bottle.

I shook it. Empty.

"Fuck!" I roared, hurling the bottle against the concrete wall. It shattered into cheap orange plastic shards. The Outfit had cut off my medical accounts. I couldn't even afford aspirin, let alone the painkillers I desperately needed.

From the corner of the dark room, a whimper echoed.

Luca was curled up under a moth-eaten blanket. His eyes, once sharp and arrogant, were now wide and vacant. The brain damage had reduced my brother to a five-year-old. He clutched a filthy, missing-eyed teddy bear to his chest, trembling at the sound of my shout.

"Hungry," Luca mumbled, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. "Want candy."

The anger drained out of me, leaving only a suffocating pit of despair. I strapped my cheap, chafing prosthetic leg to my stump, biting back a groan of agony, and hauled myself into the rusted wheelchair.

I rolled over to the small refrigerator. Inside was half a carton of expired milk and a rock-hard heel of bread. I tore the bread into chunks, soaked it in the sour milk until it was mush, and handed the bowl to Luca.

Luca dug his unwashed fingers into the mush and shoved it into his mouth. He giggled, holding out his dirty teddy bear to me as if offering a trade.

I turned my head away, unable to look at him. I wheeled myself toward the bathroom. A cracked mirror hung over the sink. I stared at the pathetic, broken man in the glass.

Behind me, the static-filled television flickered to life. A local news channel was covering a charity gala in New York.

The camera panned across a red carpet. And there she was.

Elena.

She wore a breathtaking emerald gown, her head held high, radiating absolute power and grace. Dante Moretti stood beside her, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. She smiled at him, a look of pure, unadulterated love.

My chest caved in. I couldn't breathe. I remembered sitting in a run-down apartment just like this one, years ago, when she had been exiled. She had cooked me a bowl of cheap noodles, smiling at me with that same warmth. And I had knocked the bowl out of her hands. I had called her worthless.

A choked, pathetic sob ripped from my throat. Tears spilled over my eyelashes, cutting tracks through the grime on my face. I gripped the wheels of my chair, my knuckles turning white.

"Candy!" Luca whined loudly, pointing at the TV.

I wiped my face with the back of my filthy sleeve. I opened the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out three crumpled dollar bills—the last of our government welfare money.

I pushed my wheelchair out of the basement and into the freezing Chicago rain. The streets of the South Side were rivers of mud and garbage. Every rotation of my wheels splashed freezing sludge onto my pants.

I made it to the corner bodega. The owner, a man who used to bow when I walked in, sneered at me. When I bought the candy bar, he didn't hand me the change. He dropped the coins onto the dirty floor.

I swallowed my pride, leaning precariously over the side of the chair to pick up the pennies.

When I wheeled back outside, clutching the candy bar, three men blocked the alleyway leading to my apartment. They had dyed hair and cheap leather jackets.

I recognized the leader. He was a low-level street thug. Years ago, Luca had broken three of his ribs just for looking at him wrong.

The thug smiled, pulling a switchblade from his pocket. He kicked the front wheel of my chair hard.

I lost my balance and tumbled out of the chair, crashing face-first into the freezing mud. The candy bar flew from my hand.

Luca, who had followed me outside, saw the candy fall. He cried out and crawled into the mud to grab it.

The thug stepped forward and brought his heavy boot down hard on Luca’s hand. Luca shrieked in pain.

"Stop!" I screamed, trying to push myself up. But without my leg, I slipped in the mud, collapsing helplessly.

The thugs laughed. The leader knelt down, grabbed me by my greasy hair, and pressed the cold steel of the switchblade against my throat.

"Look at the mighty Vitiellos," the thug spat. "You're not even Outfit trash anymore. You die here, the rats eat you, and nobody cares."

I looked up at the gray, raining sky. The cold blade dug into my skin, drawing a bead of blood. I didn't feel fear. I felt nothing but a crushing, absolute exhaustion.

I closed my eyes, letting my head fall back into the mud.

"Just do it. End this hell."

Matteo Vitiello POV:

The thug stared down at me, his switchblade pressing into my throat. When he saw the absolute, dead resignation in my eyes, his cruel smile widened. He pulled the knife away and clicked it shut.

"Dying is too easy for you," he sneered.

He stood up and drove the heel of his boot directly into the center of my back. He ground his foot down, burying my face deep into the freezing, filthy puddle. Mud and foul water forced their way up my nose. I choked, thrashing my arms, but he weighed too much.

"Hey, look at this," one of the other thugs laughed.

He kicked my right pant leg. The fabric rode up, exposing the cheap, plastic and metal joint of my prosthetic leg.

My heart seized. Panic, sharp and blinding, finally pierced through my apathy. That leg was the only thing keeping me somewhat human. Without it, I was just a torso dragging along the ground.

"No!" I roared, twisting violently in the mud. I clawed at the thug's ankles. "Don't touch it! Leave it alone!"

"Hold him down," the leader laughed.

Two thugs grabbed my arms, pinning me face-down in the sludge. The leader knelt beside my right stump. He grabbed the cheap velcro and leather straps that secured the socket to my severed thigh. He didn't unbuckle them. He yanked brutally.

The friction tore the fragile, newly healed skin around my stump. I screamed, a raw, throat-shredding sound, as the plastic socket was ripped completely off my body.

The leader stood up, holding my leg like a morbid trophy. He tossed it in the air a few times, mocking me, before turning toward the end of the alley.

With a loud grunt, he hurled the prosthetic leg. It sailed through the rain and crashed heavily into a massive, overflowing green dumpster, burying itself under rotting food and garbage.

"No... please..." I sobbed, dragging my body through the mud with my elbows, leaving a trail of blood from my torn stump. I reached my hand toward the dumpster, my fingers digging desperately into the wet pavement. I couldn't move fast enough. I was completely, utterly helpless.

Seeing me crawling like a crushed insect, Luca became terrified. He let out a high-pitched, hysterical wail and lunged toward me.

"Shut up, retard," the leader barked. He swung his leg back and kicked Luca squarely in the stomach.

Luca flew backward, slamming hard against the brick wall. He collapsed into the trash, vomiting a stream of sour milk and stomach acid.

A surge of adrenaline, fueled by pure, desperate instinct, flooded my veins. I pushed off the ground with both arms, throwing my mutilated body across the alley, and threw myself over Luca.

The thugs descended on us. Heavy boots rained down on my ribs, my spine, the back of my skull.

I curled into a tight ball, shielding Luca’s head beneath my chest. I didn't scream. I just took the impacts, feeling my ribs crack under the assault.

As a boot slammed into the side of my face, my vision flashed white. In that blinding light, a memory surfaced. I was sixteen, standing in a pristine Chicago garden. I was holding a young, terrified Elena by the shoulders, swearing to her that I would always protect her.

The irony was so sharp it physically cut me. I had promised to protect the girl I loved, and instead, I had destroyed her. Now, I was being beaten to death in a slum, using my broken body to protect the brother who had ruined everything.

Blood poured from my nose, mixing with the mud and tears on my face. I looked down at Luca, who was shivering and crying beneath me. I felt a profound, absurd tragedy.

Suddenly, the wail of police sirens pierced the storm. Red and blue lights flashed against the wet brick walls.

"Cops. Let's go," the leader hissed. He reached down, snatched the three crumpled dollar bills from my pocket, and the three of them scrambled over the chain-link fence, vanishing into the rain.

A Chicago Police cruiser idled at the mouth of the alley. Two officers in heavy yellow raincoats stepped out, shining their heavy Maglites into the dark. It wasn't a rescue. A neighbor had simply complained about the noise.

The beam of light hit my bloody face.

One officer walked over, pinching his nose against the smell. He didn't draw his weapon. He didn't call for an ambulance. He just nudged my shoulder with his black nightstick.

"You dead, buddy?" the cop asked, his voice dripping with apathy. "If you're not, drag your ass out of here. We're not doing paperwork for gang trash tonight."

I slowly lifted my head. My face was a swollen, unrecognizable mask of gore. The cop looked at my missing leg, looked at Luca drooling in the trash, and turned away in disgust. They walked back to their cruiser and drove off, leaving us to the rats.

The alley was dead silent, save for the relentless downpour.

I looked at the empty space where my leg used to be. I looked at the dumpster that held my dignity. I looked at Luca, who was sucking his thumb and crying for candy.

The last pillar of my sanity snapped.

I threw my head back, facing the black, weeping sky. I opened my bloody mouth and let out a scream of pure, unadulterated agony. It was a howl that tore from the very bottom of my soul, echoing off the brick walls, drowning out the thunder.

I clutched Luca to my chest, my tears running hot over my freezing skin. Through the blinding pain, a single, obsessive thought locked into my shattered mind.

"New York..." I whispered, my voice a broken rasp. "I must go to New York."

Matteo Vitiello POV:

"New York... I must go to New York."

The words tasted like copper and mud on my bleeding tongue. I pushed Luca off my chest and dragged my body forward. My right leg ended in a mangled, bleeding stump. The rough asphalt tore through my soaked pants, scraping the raw flesh beneath, but I didn't stop.

I crawled like a crushed worm through the freezing Chicago rain.

The icy downpour battered my swollen, ruined face. I bit down on my torn lip to keep from passing out from the agony. Every inch of my body screamed. I used to be a prince of the underworld. Now, I was less than the rats that scurried past my bleeding hands. This was my punishment.

Behind me, Luca huddled against the brick wall, shivering violently and letting out muffled, wet whimpers.

I kept my eyes locked on the massive green dumpster at the end of the alley. It reeked of sour milk, rotting meat, and wet cardboard. I dragged myself through the puddles until my hands hit the rusted metal base.

I gritted my teeth, grabbed the slippery rim, and pulled my broken body upward. My muscles tore. My ribs ground together.

I threw the upper half of my body over the edge and plunged my hands into the garbage. Maggots writhed against my skin. I dug frantically through the rotting sludge. A jagged piece of broken glass sliced deep into my palm. My blood mixed with the foul gray water, but I didn't care.

My fingers finally brushed against hard, cheap plastic.

I pulled the prosthetic leg out of the filth. I hugged it tightly to my chest, burying my face in the garbage-soaked plastic. It was my only lifeline. I needed it to stand. I needed it to walk. I needed it to go to New York and see the woman I had destroyed.

I shoved the plastic socket over my bleeding stump. A fresh wave of agony shot up my spine. I let out a low, guttural grunt, tightening the cheap straps until they cut into my skin.

I grabbed the brick wall and forced myself to stand. My vision swam with black spots. I limped back to Luca, grabbed his collar, and hauled him up from the mud. I turned my head, staring blindly into the storm, looking toward the East Coast.

***

Elena Moretti POV:

The air inside the top-floor boardroom of the New York Outfit headquarters was thick and suffocating.

I sat near the head of the massive mahogany table. The room was a fortress of glass and steel, a stark contrast to the rain-soaked hell I had left behind in Chicago. I wore a tailored black suit, my posture perfectly straight. I was in control.

Dante sat at the head of the table beside me. He leaned back in his leather chair, his dark eyes cold and unreadable. He casually flipped a solid gold lighter open and shut. *Clack. Clack.* The sound echoed over the nervous voices of the men in the room.

A cartel boss from the South American shipping line was standing, waving his hands, complaining loudly about the new profit margins.

I frowned. The heavy stench of the cartel boss's imported cigar drifted across the table. My stomach lurched violently. A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck.

I raised my right hand. I tapped my manicured fingernails twice against the polished wood.

The loud complaints died instantly. The room fell into a terrified, dead silence. Every mafia boss at the table lowered their eyes, staring at their hands.

I opened my mouth to speak, to put the cartel boss in his place.

Before the words could leave my throat, the room violently tilted. A massive wave of dizziness hit me. The edges of my vision turned black. I couldn't breathe. My body went entirely limp, sliding sideways out of the heavy leather chair.

Dante's head snapped toward me. His pupils dilated in pure horror.

He kicked his heavy chair backward. It crashed to the floor. Before my head could strike the sharp corner of the mahogany table, Dante's strong arms caught me. He pulled me flush against his chest.

"Elena!" Dante roared. The sound was deafening, a raw, primal sound of terror that shook the bulletproof glass.

He glared at the men at the table. "Get out! Get the fucking doctor right now!"

The mafia bosses scrambled over each other, practically tearing the boardroom doors off the hinges to escape his wrath. Sirens began to blare in the hallway outside. The entire building went into immediate lockdown.

Julian, the private physician, sprinted into the boardroom clutching his medical bag.

Dante drew his gun with his free hand and pressed the barrel directly against the center of Julian's forehead. Dante's eyes were bloodshot, his chest heaving. "If she dies, I will burn this entire hospital to the ground with you inside it."

Julian didn't flinch. He was used to Dante's violent obsession. He gently pushed the hot barrel of the gun away. "Let me do my job, Dante."

Julian quickly drew a vial of my blood and ran a rapid diagnostic test on his portable kit. Dante paced like a caged predator, his hands shaking.

Ten minutes later, Julian looked at the digital readout. A warm smile broke across his face.

He turned to Dante, who looked ready to commit murder.

"She is perfectly healthy, Dante," Julian said softly. "She's pregnant. Six weeks."

The heavy gun slipped from Dante's fingers. It hit the floor with a loud clatter. The most ruthless tyrant in the New York underworld froze. Tears instantly welled in his cold blue eyes.

Dante dropped to his knees beside my chair. His large, trembling hands reached out, gently taking my hand. He pressed his lips against my knuckles, his broad shoulders shaking.

"My queen, you have given me the whole world."