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."

Elena Moretti POV:

The morning sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Long Island estate's sunroom.

I sat on the plush white sofa, staring at the manicured gardens. I placed my hands on the armrests and pushed myself up. I hated feeling weak. I hated being treated like glass.

Heavy footsteps approached from behind. Dante walked in, holding a mug of warm milk. He saw me standing and immediately crossed the room, placing his large hand on my shoulder.

"Sit down, Elena," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. He gently but firmly pushed me back onto the cushions.

I scoffed, glaring up at him. "I am pregnant, Dante. I am not paralyzed."

I snatched the mug of milk from his hand.

Dante didn't get angry. Instead, a soft, indulgent smile touched his lips. He reached out and stroked my hair, tucking a loose strand behind my ear. He pulled his hand back, tapped the earpiece in his ear, and spoke to his head of security. "Triple the perimeter guards. No one enters the estate without my direct clearance."

He leaned down, kissed my forehead, and reached into my blazer pocket. He pulled out my custom micro-pistol and slipped it into his own jacket. "I'm going to the casino. Rest."

I listened to the deep roar of his sports car engine fading down the driveway.

As soon as the sound vanished, I sat up straight. The softness in my eyes disappeared, replaced by sharp, calculating ice.

I reached under the heavy glass coffee table and pulled out a hidden, encrypted laptop. I flipped it open. The screen flared to life, displaying a multi-way encrypted video conference. Four Wall Street executives in sharp suits sat stiffly on the other end.

I activated my voice scrambler.

"Report," I ordered. My voice came through their speakers as a deep, metallic distortion.

"We are ready to move on the Atlantic City target," the lead executive said nervously.

I pulled up the financial blueprints of the rival casino. In Chicago, I was stripped of everything because I lacked capital. I had learned my lesson. Violence was loud, but money was an invisible blade.

"Their supply chain is over-leveraged," I said coldly. "Short their main holding company. Dump the dummy shares into the market to trigger a panic sell-off, then buy the debt for pennies."

Within thirty minutes, the digital numbers on my screen plummeted in red, then spiked in green. I had just gutted a rival family without firing a single bullet. The casino belonged to me.

The screen went black. The sunroom doors opened.

Ezra, my chief legal counsel, walked in carrying a leather briefcase. He set a cup of decaffeinated herbal tea on the table and handed me a thick stack of documents.

"The Atlantic City acquisition is complete," Ezra said smoothly. "There is also a minor real estate attachment included in the portfolio."

I flipped open the file. It was a zoning map of a Chicago slum.

"We need to clear this specific block to build the new East Coast logistics center," Ezra explained, pointing a manicured finger at a cluster of red squares.

My eyes scanned the map. My gaze stopped for half a second on a rundown apartment building marked for immediate demolition.

I felt absolutely nothing.

I picked up my silver fountain pen and signed my name at the bottom of the clearance order with elegant, sweeping strokes.

Ezra smiled, taking the file back. "Your business instincts are flawless."

"Trash that blocks the empire's expansion should be cleaned up," I said simply, taking a sip of my tea.

***

Matteo Vitiello POV:

The filthy Chicago apartment smelled of mildew and stale urine.

I sat on the broken floorboards, using a torn, dirty rag to dry Luca's wet hair. He was shivering, clutching his dirty teddy bear to his chest.

Suddenly, the rotting wooden door was violently kicked open. The hinges snapped.

Two men in sharp suits stepped into the cramped room, followed by three uniformed Chicago police officers.

One of the suits sneered at the squalor. He pulled a thick piece of paper from his jacket and threw it directly into my face.

I grabbed the paper, my anger flaring. I tried to push myself up on my prosthetic leg to fight back. Before I could even stand, a cop lunged forward, slamming his heavy nightstick into my chest. He grabbed my throat and pinned me brutally against the peeling wallpaper.

The paper fluttered to the floor.

My eyes locked onto the top of the page. Stamped in glowing gold foil was the crest of the Moretti Commercial Group.

All the air left my lungs. The absolute terror of that logo paralyzed me. She found me. She knew where I was hiding.

"You have twenty-four hours to get your garbage out of here," the suit said coldly. "The bulldozers arrive tomorrow morning."

The cop released my throat and stepped back.

I slid down the wall, hitting the floor hard. I reached out with trembling fingers and picked up the eviction notice. I squeezed it so tightly my knuckles turned white.

I looked at the golden logo, my throat burning. I let out a broken, miserable laugh.

"You won't even leave me a final piece of dignity, Elena."

Matteo Vitiello POV:

I stared at the crumpled eviction notice in my hand. My knuckles were bone-white. The golden Moretti logo mocked me.

I used to control the fate of thousands in this city. I used to sign papers that decided who lived and who died. Now, I couldn't even protect a leaky, rat-infested room.

Luca began to wail. The violent entry of the police had terrified him. He curled into a tight ball in the corner, sobbing loudly, his hands covering his ears.

I dragged my useless, heavy prosthetic leg across the floorboards. "Luca, hey, it's okay. Look at me."

I reached out to touch his shoulder. Luca flailed wildly in his panic. His dirty fist flew out and smashed directly into my swollen cheekbone.

A sharp, blinding pain exploded behind my eye. I tasted fresh blood in my mouth. I didn't yell. I didn't hit him back. I just swallowed the metallic taste and pulled his shaking body against my chest, letting him cry into my wet shirt.

I looked around the room. The peeling paint, the stained mattress, the empty cupboards. There was nothing left here. My obsession burned hotter than ever. I had to go to New York. I had to see her.

I crawled over to the mattress and flipped it over. I ripped open the fabric seam and pulled out a rusted metal tin box.

My hands shook as I pried the lid off. Inside lay three crumpled one-dollar bills and a handful of sticky quarters. It wasn't even enough to buy half a bus ticket out of the state.

I closed my eyes. My gaze slowly dropped to my plastic leg.

If I sold it, I could get a few dollars. But I shook my head violently. Without the leg, I couldn't walk. I couldn't carry Luca to the station.

I grabbed a black trash bag from the corner. It was filled with heavy copper wires and rusted pipes I had dug out of dumpsters over the last week. I slung the heavy bag over my shoulder, grabbed Luca's hand, and limped out of the doomed apartment.

***

The underground pawn shop in the black market was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies.

I dropped the heavy trash bag onto the scratched glass counter. The metal clanked loudly.

The pawn shop boss, a massive man with a scarred neck, peered into the bag. He sneered, showing yellow teeth. He reached into his register and tossed two five-dollar bills onto the glass.

"Ten bucks," the boss grunted.

"No, please," I begged, my voice cracking. I pushed the bills back. "This is solid copper. I need more. I need enough for two bus tickets to New York."

The boss laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "New York? Look at you, cripple. You wouldn't survive a day. Take the ten or get the fuck out." He nodded to a massive security guard standing by the door.

I gripped the edge of the glass counter. Desperation clawed at my throat. I couldn't fail. Not now.

I opened my mouth and reached two fingers past my lips. I clamped my dirty fingers around my back molar—my last solid gold tooth. It was the final physical piece of the billionaire prince I used to be.

I bit down on my own fingers and yanked violently.

The root tore. Flesh ripped. A sickening crunch echoed in my skull. Blood instantly flooded my mouth, spilling over my lips and dripping onto the glass counter.

I pulled the bloody gold tooth from my mouth and slammed it onto the glass right in front of the boss.

The boss blinked, staring at the bloody molar in shock. He looked at my bleeding mouth, disgusted. He reached into the register, pulled out a crisp fifty-dollar bill, and threw it at me.

I snatched the bill. I didn't care about the searing pain in my jaw. I grabbed Luca's hand and rushed out the door.

***

The Chicago Greyhound bus station was cold and desolate in the middle of the night.

I stood at the ticket window, my clothes soaked, my mouth still dripping blood. I pushed the crumpled fifty, the ones, and the sticky quarters under the glass partition.

The ticket agent looked at the bloody money with pure revulsion. She used the tip of a pen to slide the coins closer.

"Two tickets to New York. The cheapest ones," I mumbled, my words slurring from the missing tooth.

The agent typed on her keyboard. The printer buzzed. She slid two thin, cheap paper tickets under the glass.

My trembling fingers snatched the tickets. I held them to my chest as if they were made of diamonds. They were the keys to my salvation.

I turned my head, staring out the dirty glass doors toward the dark highway pointing east. A sick, manic fever burned in my eyes.

I smiled, blood leaking over my teeth.

"We are going to New York. To see her."