Matteo Vitiello POV:

The worst blizzard in a decade hit Chicago, triggering a city-wide red alert for extreme cold.

The wind howled like a demon, completely tearing the wooden boards off our broken basement window. Thick, freezing snow poured into the room, piling up in white drifts against the concrete walls.

It had been exactly one month since I dropped the letter into the mailbox. I had checked the street corner every single day until my legs completely failed me. There was no reply.

The liver cancer had finally consumed my organs. I lay flat on the filthy, urine-stained mattress. I was nothing but a skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of grey, bruised skin.

My eyes were sunken so deep into my skull that I could barely see. My chest barely moved. My breathing was so shallow it didn't even produce a cloud of mist in the freezing air.

The city had shut off the power to the building weeks ago. The water pipes in the walls had burst, covering the floor in a sheet of solid ice.

Luca was curled into a tight ball next to me. His lips were entirely purple. He was shivering violently, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he clutched his dirty teddy bear.

"Cold," Luca mumbled, tears freezing on his cheeks. "Brother... cold."

I slowly turned my head. I gathered the absolute last ounce of energy in my dying body. I grabbed the collar of my moldy, heavy coat and pulled it off my own shoulders. I dragged the heavy fabric over Luca, burying him in the warmth.

That single, simple movement demanded all the oxygen left in my blood. My lungs collapsed. I opened my mouth, gasping violently. A horrible, wet hissing sound tore out of my throat, like a broken bellows.

I knew it was over. Death's freezing fingers were wrapped tight around my windpipe, crushing the life out of me.

I reached out my trembling arm. My hand, missing three fingers, clamped down hard around Luca’s dirty wrist.

I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for destroying his life. But my vocal cords were completely paralyzed. All that came out was a faint, pathetic wheeze of air.

My vision began to darken at the edges. The blackness was creeping in, swallowing the room.

Using the last spark of electricity in my brain, I forced my neck to turn. I stared at the peeling concrete wall near the ceiling. Pinned to the stone was a torn, wrinkled newspaper clipping from five years ago. It was a photo of Elena at the Washington gala. She looked down from the paper, her eyes cold, arrogant, and utterly untouchable.

A single, cloudy tear slipped from the corner of my eye. The moment the saltwater rolled over my cheekbone, the freezing air turned it into a solid drop of ice.

My grip on Luca’s wrist suddenly vanished. My arm dropped like a stone, hitting the mattress with a dull thud.

My eyes remained wide open. My pupils dilated and froze, staring forever at the picture of the woman who had rightfully condemned me to hell. I died without closing my eyes.

Luca didn't understand. He thought I was just tired.

He sat up and grabbed my stiffening arm, shaking it back and forth. "Brother? Wake up. Hungry. Make food."

I didn't move. I didn't breathe.

Luca pouted. He pulled his teddy bear tight against his chest, curled up against my dead body, and closed his eyes to endure the hunger.

The temperature in the basement plummeted. Within hours, my corpse was frozen solid.

Three days later, the blizzard finally stopped.

The heavy wooden door to the basement was kicked open. The fat landlord stepped in, holding a wooden baseball bat, ready to scream about the rent.

The moment he stepped inside, the overwhelming stench of human feces mixed with the sweet, rotting smell of death hit him in the face.

The landlord covered his nose. He looked at the mattress and saw my wide, dead eyes staring at the ceiling.

He let out a high-pitched scream, dropping his bat and falling backward onto the icy floor.

Luca, starved and barely conscious, weakly raised his hand toward the landlord. "Food?"

The landlord scrambled backward on his hands and knees, ran out of the basement, and dialed 911.

A few hours later, the police and the coroner arrived. Two men in thick jackets grabbed my frozen arms and legs, tossing me into a thick black body bag like a slab of cheap meat.

Two police officers grabbed Luca by the arms. They dragged him up the stairs, ignoring his screams, and shoved him into the back of a police cruiser, destined for the most overcrowded, violent public homeless shelter in the South Side.

"Brother!"

Luca Vitiello POV:

The giant room smelled like pee and old sweat.

It used to be a warehouse, but now it was full of metal beds and angry men. The walls were grey and the air was always cold. I hugged my bear tight against my chest. My bear didn't have a color anymore, just brown dirt, but he was my only friend.

I crouched in the darkest corner of the room, my knees pulled up to my chin. The clothes the police gave me were too big. The sleeves covered my hands. I watched the men walking around. They had angry eyes and mean faces. I was scared.

A loud bell rang. A woman in a yellow vest pushed a big metal cart into the room. It smelled like warm oatmeal.

All the men started yelling. They ran at the cart like hungry dogs.

I stood up, but my legs were slow. I tried to walk to the cart, but a big man with a dirty beard pushed me hard. I fell on the hard floor. My elbows hurt.

By the time I crawled to the front, the big pot was empty. The woman scraped the bottom and put a tiny spoonful of cold, grey mush into my plastic bowl.

I held the bowl with both hands and walked back to my dark corner. I picked up my plastic spoon.

Suddenly, a tall man stood in front of me. He had a long, scary red scar across his cheek.

He lifted his heavy boot and kicked my bowl. The plastic cracked. The oatmeal flew onto the dirty floor.

I screamed. I dropped the spoon and covered my head with my hands, my whole body shaking.

The scarred man laughed. He reached down and snatched my bear from my arms. "Look at the retard playing with toys."

My chest felt hot. That was my bear. I jumped up and threw my hands forward, trying to grab the soft fur.

The man pulled his arm back and punched me right in the middle of my face.

A loud crunch echoed in my head. Pain exploded in my nose. Bright red blood sprayed out, splashing all over my oversized shirt.

I fell backward, hitting the floor. I grabbed my nose, crying out loud. The tears mixed with the hot blood running into my mouth. It tasted like metal.

The man sneered. He held my bear over a big, smelly plastic bucket where people threw their garbage and old food. He dropped my bear into the slop.

The other men in the room pointed at me and laughed. Nobody stopped him. Nobody helped me.

I didn't care about my bleeding nose. I crawled on my hands and knees across the floor. I reached my hands into the disgusting, sour-smelling garbage bucket and pulled my bear out. He was covered in slimy food.

I pulled the wet, smelly bear against my chest, hugging him as hard as I could.

My brain felt fuzzy. I rocked back and forth on the floor. I opened my bloody mouth and started saying the only word that made me feel safe. The word from a long time ago, when a pretty lady used to cook me warm food.

"Elena... Elena..." I mumbled, blood dripping from my chin onto the bear.

A young man wearing glasses and a yellow vest walked over. He yelled at the scarred man to go away.

The young man knelt down and held out a white paper tissue.

I didn't take it. I squeezed my eyes shut and pushed myself backward against the cold wall, shrinking away like a kicked dog.

The young man looked at me. His eyes looked sad. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black phone. He pointed it at me.

A bright white light flashed in my eyes.

I didn't know what he was doing. I just kept licking the blood off my lip and crying. I didn't know the young man was typing words on his phone. I didn't know he was writing about a forgotten soul in the Chicago winter.

I just closed my eyes and went to sleep in the dark.

The data stream pushed the photo into the network, and the cold gears of fate began to turn.

Mia POV:

The deafening roar of gunfire echoed off the reinforced concrete walls of the Long Island estate's underground tactical room.

I stood in the center of the firing line, wearing a tight black tactical vest over my tank top. I held my custom ivory-handled micro-pistols, one in each hand. My breathing was perfectly steady.

*Bang. Bang. Bang.*

I tracked the high-speed mechanical targets moving erratically across the range. I squeezed the triggers in rapid succession. Ten shots rang out. Ten bullet holes appeared exactly in the dead center of the targets' foreheads. Perfect kill shots.

I lowered the smoking barrels and engaged the safeties. I walked over to the metal bench and picked up my encrypted tablet. It was synced to the Moretti family's secondary intelligence network, scanning global data for potential threats.

I casually scrolled through the flagged alerts.

Suddenly, an image from a Chicago charity organization's Twitter feed popped up on the screen.

My eyes instantly locked onto the photo. My pupils shrank to pinpricks.

I used my thumb and index finger to zoom in. The photo showed a filthy, emaciated man huddled in the corner of a homeless shelter. His nose was broken, blood pouring down his face and staining his oversized clothes. He was desperately hugging a trash-covered teddy bear. The caption read: *Mentally disabled homeless man crying for 'Elena'. Help him.*

I recognized that face. The brain damage and the dirt couldn't hide the bone structure. It was Luca Vitiello.

A violent, blinding flash of memory hit me. I saw the industrial fireworks tearing through the sky. I saw the horrifying, melted skin on Elena's back and chest. I was Elena’s hound. I never forgot the face of anyone who had spilled my master's blood.

Pure, unadulterated killing intent flooded my veins. My fingers gripped the edges of the tablet so hard the plastic casing creaked.

I didn't hesitate. I tapped the screen, bypassing the charity's firewall, and traced the IP upload address directly to a public shelter in the South Side of Chicago.

I grabbed the tablet, turned on my heel, and marched out of the tactical room. I took the private elevator straight to the top floor.

I pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the study without knocking.

Elena was sitting behind her desk, wearing a silk blouse, elegantly sipping from a cup of black coffee. Her corporate lawyer was standing in front of her, reviewing the latest Washington merger documents.

I walked straight past the lawyer. He immediately shut his mouth, bowed his head, and stepped back into the shadows of the room, knowing better than to interfere with the inner circle.

I placed the tablet flat on the desk, turning the screen so it directly faced Elena.

"Our network flagged this in Chicago thirty minutes ago," I reported, my voice tight with restrained violence. "It’s Luca. Our Chicago informants also confirmed that Matteo died of liver cancer three days ago. His body is in the morgue."

Elena slowly lowered her coffee cup. The porcelain clinked sharply against the saucer.

She lowered her gaze to the glowing screen. She looked at the pathetic, bloody, broken man clinging to a piece of garbage in a room full of monsters.

The air in the study turned into a vacuum. I instinctively rested my hand on the ivory grip of my pistol, my muscles coiled, waiting for the order to fly to Chicago and put a bullet between his eyes.

Elena stared at the photo for exactly five seconds. Her dark eyes were like a bottomless, ancient well. There was not a single ripple of emotion. No anger. No satisfaction. No pity.

She reached out her index finger and casually swiped across the screen, closing the photo and returning the tablet to the home screen.

She picked up her coffee cup and took another slow, elegant sip.

I blinked, slightly thrown off. "Do you want me to fly out and clean up the trash, boss?"

Elena turned her head and looked out the massive window at the sprawling, invincible skyline of New York. Her voice was so calm, so devoid of care, it sent a chill down my spine.

"Death is a release for them, Mia," she said softly. "Living in torment is the best punishment."

She set her cup down. "Take the tablet. Command the intelligence network to permanently block all keywords related to that shelter. Erase them from our servers."

With one sentence, she cut his final lifeline, condemning him to rot in that asylum for the rest of his miserable life.

I bowed my head immediately. "Yes, boss." I picked up the tablet and stepped back.

Elena turned her attention back to the lawyer in the shadows, completely unbothered.

"Leave it alone. It is the fate he deserves. Continue the report."