Elena Moretti POV:

"I will make the laws of this country bow to us as well."

The moment the words left my mouth, Dante’s rough thumb pressed hard into the back of my hand. His grip was entirely too tight, borderline painful, but I didn't flinch. I looked up and saw the raw, fanatical hunger burning in his blue eyes. It was the mafia tyrant in his blood, the genetic predisposition to conquer and consume everything in his path. He craved power, but more than that, he craved watching me wield it.

I smoothly pulled my hand from his grip. I picked up the red marker from the laminated map and tossed it perfectly into the crystal pen holder on the desk. It landed with a sharp, satisfying *clack*. Every item in my space had a designated drop point. It was a habit born from the utter helplessness of watching my mother die when I was a child—I needed to control the physical space around me, down to the millimeter.

Dante leaned in, his chest brushing against my arm. He lowered his head and pressed a hard, open-mouthed kiss to the side of my neck. His breath was hot against my skin.

"I will clear every physical obstacle in Washington for you," he murmured against my pulse point. "Whoever stands in your way, I will bury them."

I placed my hands flat against his solid chest and pushed him back just enough to look him in the eye.

"We do not need bullets this time, Dante," I said, my voice cold and steady. "We need dollars."

Time moved like a well-oiled machine. The underground blood money of the Moretti empire flowed seamlessly into the blinding light of the legal world. Wall Street digital screens spun in a blur of green numbers. Over the next five years, the Moretti Group’s stock prices skyrocketed, devouring real estate, tech startups, and pharmaceutical giants. We bought the system.

Five years later. Washington, D.C.

I sat in front of the vanity mirror in the top-floor Presidential Suite of the Four Seasons. The makeup artist stood behind me, carefully clasping a twenty-million-dollar diamond necklace around my throat. The cold stones rested heavy against my collarbones.

The suite door opened. My lead corporate lawyer stepped onto the thick carpet. His expensive leather shoes made absolutely no sound. He was an ambitious man who had clawed his way up from the slums, and his silent footsteps were a permanent survival instinct from his past. I had hired him on Wall Street five years ago because I recognized that ruthless, desperate hunger in his eyes. It was the exact same hunger I had when I was fighting to survive in Chicago.

He walked up to my vanity and held out a thick, heavy background check file. His knuckles were white, and the edges of the paper were slightly crumpled from his tight grip.

I didn't turn around. I didn't reach for the file. I simply met his eyes through the reflection in the mirror. My gaze was flat and unblinking.

He instantly realized his mistake. He lowered his head submissively, opened the file to a specific page, and began to read.

"Target Senator Thomas," the lawyer reported, his voice crisp. "He has three offshore shell companies. His bribery weakness is tied to a specific real estate zoning permit in his home district. We have the exact ledger amounts."

I raised my hand. The makeup artist immediately backed away and left the room. The heavy door clicked shut. We were alone.

I reached out and took the file from his hands. I didn't look at the data. I turned to my right and dropped the entire folder into the high-security paper shredder next to the desk.

The machine let out a piercing, screeching sound as it devoured the documents.

The lawyer’s eyes widened in brief shock, but he recovered instantly. He lowered his gaze to the floor, folding his hands in front of him, waiting for my command.

I stood up. I smoothed the skirt of my dark red couture gown.

"We do not need threats tonight," I said, my voice echoing in the quiet suite. "We need charity."

An hour later, I stepped into the grand ballroom on the ground floor. The space was packed with the political and financial elite of the country. I linked my arm through Dante’s. The moment we stepped onto the red carpet, the camera flashes erupted. The blinding white light was almost painful, but I didn't blink.

An older, stubborn-looking senator holding a crystal champagne flute walked directly toward us. His chin was tilted up in a display of old-school political arrogance.

"Mrs. Moretti," the senator sneered, looking me up and down like I was a mobster's trophy wife. "I hear your family has a colorful history back in Chicago. Extortion, was it? We don't play those gutter games in Washington."

The temperature around us plummeted. Dante’s eyes went dead. His large hand immediately slid toward the inside of his suit jacket, right where his holster sat.

I didn't look at Dante. I simply moved my hand and pressed my fingers firmly down on his wrist, stopping his violent impulse.

I smiled at the senator.

"Your shell company in the Cayman Islands missed a tax filing of exactly four point two million dollars last quarter, Senator," I said. My voice was smooth, flat, and lethal. "And the zoning board in your district received a dark money donation of eight hundred thousand. Would you like me to recite the routing numbers?"

The senator’s face lost all its color. His hand trembled so violently that a few drops of champagne spilled over the rim of his glass and stained his cuff.

My lawyer stepped out from the crowd at the perfect moment. He utilized his body to block the view of the nearby reporters. He smiled politely and slipped a thick, embossed business card into the senator’s shaking hand.

"The Moretti Group is more than happy to provide legal, transparent sponsorship for your upcoming reelection campaign, Senator," the lawyer said.

The senator swallowed hard. Caught between absolute terror and overwhelming greed, he humiliatingly gripped the card and nodded stiffly.

The ballroom speakers crackled. The host’s voice rang out, announcing the guest of honor. The grand chandeliers dimmed, leaving only a single, blinding spotlight aimed at the stage.

I let go of Dante’s arm. I walked toward the podium alone. The sharp click of my high heels echoed through the silent, massive hall.

I stood behind the microphone. I looked down at the sea of faces—the untouchable politicians who thought they ran the world. My eyes swept over them with pure disdain.

I began to speak about the future of technology and medical funding. Every word I spoke was backed by billions of dollars in liquid capital. The sheer financial weight of my speech crushed the air out of the room. They realized they were no longer the predators; they were the pets.

As I finished, the crowd erupted into thunderous, deafening applause.

I looked into the shadows near the exit. Dante stood there, watching me bathe in the blinding light. A dark, intensely proud smile curved his lips.

"This is your true throne."

Matteo Vitiello POV:

The blinding lights of the Washington gala on the television screen clashed violently with the reality of my existence.

A freezing gust of wind howled through the shattered window of the Chicago basement, cutting straight to my bones. The single, cheap incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered, casting long, ugly shadows across the peeling concrete walls.

I sat hunched over a wooden table that was missing one leg. I pulled the collar of my moldy, foul-smelling coat tighter around my neck. I was twenty-eight, but I looked like a man ten years older. My hair had turned completely white. Deep, jagged scars crisscrossed my ruined face, pulling my skin tight over my cheekbones.

My hands shook uncontrollably. I tried to grip the cheap tin of meat sauce, but my missing fingers made it nearly impossible. I pressed my thumb against the sharp metal lid and pulled. The jagged tin sliced deep into my index finger. Dark blood welled up, mixing with the grease of the can, but I didn't feel a thing. The high-voltage electricity from five years ago had completely destroyed the nerve endings in my extremities. Pain was a luxury I no longer possessed.

"Food," a slurred voice mumbled.

I looked across the room. Luca sat on a urine-stained mattress, his knees pulled to his chest. He was twenty-six years old, but the brain damage had permanently locked his mind at the age of five. He was clutching a filthy, torn teddy bear to his chest. Thick saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth as he stared at the open can of meat.

I picked up a rusty spoon. I scooped out a clump of the cold, gelatinous meat sauce and held it out to him.

Luca lunged forward and shoved the spoon into his mouth, swallowing the food without chewing. The brown sauce smeared all over his chin and nose. I stared at him with dead, hollow eyes. I raised my dirty sleeve and mechanically wiped the mess from his face. This was my punishment. My stupidity had broken my brother's mind, and now I was shackled to his ghost.

In the corner of the basement, an old, scavenged CRT television buzzed with static.

Suddenly, the snowy screen flickered and cleared. The news channel switched to a live broadcast of a charity gala in Washington, D.C.

My hand froze in mid-air. The rusty spoon slipped from my grip and hit the concrete floor with a dull *clang*.

I stared at the small screen. My cloudy, sunken eyes began to shake violently in their sockets. My chest heaved as my lungs fought for air.

Elena.

She stood at a podium, wearing a dark red gown that made her look like a goddess of war. She was glowing. The absolute authority and power radiating from her voice as she delivered her speech in fluent English pierced straight through my chest.

I placed my hands on the edge of the broken table and tried to stand up. I needed to get closer to her. But my cheap, twisted prosthetic leg buckled under my weight. My spine, permanently damaged by the electricity and years of malnutrition, gave out.

I crashed heavily onto the freezing concrete floor.

The impact tore the skin off my knees. Hot blood soaked through my thin pants, but I ignored it. I dragged my broken body across the filthy floor, pulling myself toward the television set. My breath hitched in my throat, sounding like a dying animal.

I reached the TV. I raised my trembling, mutilated hand and pressed my fingertips against the curved glass screen, right over her face.

A sharp jolt of static electricity snapped against my skin.

The tiny shock ripped me out of my delusion and slammed me back into reality. She was a queen accepting the applause of the world's elite. I was a rat rotting in a sewer. I had thrown away the most precious treasure in the world for a lying, manipulative bitch, and now I was paying the ultimate price.

A raw, guttural sob tore out of my throat. Tears mixed with the grime on my face, dripping silently onto my torn collar.

The sound of my crying frightened Luca. He dropped his teddy bear and scrambled off the mattress, squatting down next to me.

He followed my gaze and looked at the television screen. He tilted his head, his vacant eyes staring at the elegant, untouchable woman.

Luca suddenly reached out his dirt-caked finger and pointed at the screen.

He grinned, exposing his crooked teeth. A long string of drool fell from his lips and landed directly on my shoulder.

"Pretty lady."

Matteo Vitiello POV:

The overwhelming stench of cheap bleach and unwashed bodies filled the crowded hallway of the Chicago public hospital.

I sat on a chipped plastic chair, my chest caving in as a violent coughing fit seized my body. I doubled over, hacking until my throat tore. I spat a thick wad of blood-streaked phlegm onto the dirty linoleum floor between my boots.

The homeless man sitting next to me shot me a look of pure disgust. He covered his nose with his grimy jacket and slid his chair a few feet away.

I wiped the blood from my lips with the back of my hand. I looked down. Luca was squatting at my feet, happily spinning an empty, discarded pill bottle on the floor. He was completely oblivious to the disgusted stares of the people around us.

The door to the clinic opened. An exhausted African American doctor in a wrinkled white coat stepped out. He looked at his clipboard and called out the fake name I had registered under.

I placed my hands on my thighs and forced my body upward. My prosthetic leg groaned under my weight. I limped heavily into the cramped examination room, dragging my dead foot behind me.

The doctor didn't even look up. He tossed a thin stack of lab results onto the metal desk.

"Terminal liver cancer," the doctor said, his voice completely mechanical. "The cancer cells have fully metastasized to your surrounding organs. You have three months, maybe less. I suggest you look into a state-funded hospice center."

My pupils shrank to pinpricks. My dry, cracked lips trembled, but my vocal cords refused to produce a single sound.

I didn't ask about treatments. I didn't ask about the pain. I slowly turned my head and looked through the crack in the door. Luca was still sitting in the hallway, giggling as the plastic bottle spun in circles. A wave of suffocating, paralyzing panic crashed over me. The fear of my own death was nothing compared to the absolute terror of leaving a child-brained Luca alone in this hell.

I stumbled out of the hospital. The freezing Chicago wind hit my face, nearly knocking me backward.

I grabbed Luca’s hand and dragged him toward the South Side. We stopped in front of a rundown, neon-lit pool hall. This used to be a secondary base for one of my old mafia lieutenants.

I pushed the heavy door open. The thick smell of cheap tobacco and stale beer hit my face. A group of low-level street thugs were sitting around a poker table, tossing dirty bills into a pile.

One of the thugs, a massive man with a scarred cheek, looked up. His eyes widened in shock for a second before twisting into a cruel, mocking sneer. He recognized me. He used to kiss my ring.

I let go of Luca’s hand. I hunched my shoulders, stripping away the last microscopic shred of my dignity. I limped toward the table.

"Please," I rasped, my voice sounding like grinding stones. "Take my brother. Just let him sweep the floors. Feed him."

The scarred thug stood up. He pulled his leg back and kicked me squarely in the chest.

"Fuck off," he spat. "You're a dead dog. New York put a kill order on you. Anyone who touches you gets a bullet in the head from the Moretti family."

I hit the floor hard. The straps of my cheap prosthetic snapped, and the plastic leg detached, sliding across the dirty floorboards. I was completely crippled. But I scrambled forward on my bleeding knees and threw my arms around the thug’s heavy work boot, clinging to it desperately.

"Please!" I begged, tears streaming down my scarred face. "He doesn't know anything! Just keep him alive!"

The thug looked down at me with absolute revulsion. He hacked up a ball of thick phlegm and spat it directly onto my ruined face.

Luca shrieked. Seeing me on the floor, he charged forward with his fists raised, trying to bite the thug’s leg.

The thug didn't hesitate. He swung his massive hand and backhanded Luca across the face. The impact lifted Luca off his feet. He crashed headfirst into the sharp wooden edge of the pool table. A deep gash opened on his forehead, and blood poured down his face.

I let out a raw, deafening roar. I tried to drag myself across the floor to protect him, but two other thugs grabbed my arms and pinned my face to the sticky floorboards.

The owner of the pool hall stepped out from the back room. He held a baseball bat. "Throw this trash out. If they come back, call the cops and report a break-in."

They dragged me by my collar and threw me out the back door. I landed face-first in a pile of rotting garbage in the alley. Luca was thrown out right after me.

Snow began to fall from the dark, grey sky.

I dragged my useless body through the trash until I reached Luca. I pressed my freezing, trembling hands against the bleeding gash on his forehead. Hot blood soaked my palms.

Luca cried loudly, wrapping his arms tight around my neck. "Hurts! Brother, it hurts!"

I looked up at the falling snow. My life was draining away into the frozen concrete. I realized with absolute clarity that no one in this city, no one in this world, would dare take us in.

A black hole of despair swallowed my mind. My eyes hardened into a state of total, reckless madness.

I reached into the pocket of my coat and pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar bill. It was everything I had left.

I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted copper. I had to do it. I had to shatter my soul into dust.

"Only her... only she can keep him alive."