My room resembled a skeleton, stripped down to the bone.

The closets gaped open, empty and hollow. The shelves were bare, gathering the first specks of dust. Three large suitcases stood like sentinels by the door.

My mother swept into the room. She looked elegant, as always, but weighed down by a profound sadness. She pressed a slip of paper into my palm.

"Dante Moretti," she said, her voice low. "This is his private number. He will meet you at the hangar in New York."

"Does Father know?"

"He knows you need to leave," she replied, her eyes searching mine. "He knows this city is too small for his anger and your pain. And he knows that if you stay, you will eventually kill those boys, or they will kill you with their stupidity."

She leaned in and kissed my forehead, a lingering touch.

"Be a Queen, Elena. Not a martyr."

Through the open window, I heard the crunch of tires rolling over the gravel driveway.

"They're here," I said.

My mother nodded once, a sharp, final gesture, and left the room.

I dragged my suitcases downstairs, the wheels bumping rhythmically against the steps.

Luca and Matteo were waiting in the foyer. Their hands were still bandaged from where they had cut themselves in the hospital. Their eyes widened when they saw the luggage.

"Whoa," Matteo said, letting out a low whistle. "Packing heavy for the dorms? It's only twenty minutes away, El."

They still thought I was moving to the University of Chicago dorms. They thought this was just another semester, another phase where they could hover around me and pretend nothing had changed.

"Just the essentials," I lied smoothly.

"Let's go," Luca said, stepping forward to grab the handle of the largest bag. "We'll help you set up. Sofia wanted to come help decorate, but she had a... thing."

We walked out to the waiting car. The driver was already hoisting the bags into the trunk.

Suddenly, Luca's phone rang.

It was a shrill, piercing sound that cut through the morning air.

He answered it instantly.

"Sof? Slow down. What happened?"

The color drained from his face. His knuckles went white around the phone.

"Where? We're on our way."

He hung up, his hand trembling.

"Sofia was in a crash," he said, breathless. "On I-90. She says her neck hurts."

Matteo dropped my suitcase. It hit the pavement with a heavy, sickening thud.

"Is she bleeding?" Matteo demanded, his voice tight with panic.

"She's scared," Luca said, his eyes wild. "We have to go."

They looked at me then.

I was standing there with my broken arm in a sling, my burns still throbbing under my clothes, and my entire life packed into bags at my feet. I was leaving forever, and they didn't even know it.

"Elena, take the town car," Luca said, already backing away toward their SUV. "We have to get to her. The ambulance might take too long."

"Go," I said. My voice was flat.

"We'll come by the dorms later!" Matteo yelled over his shoulder. "We'll bring pizza!"

They sprinted to their car. They tore out of the driveway, leaving black tire marks scarred onto the stone.

They didn't even check if I was okay. They ran to a minor fender bender for a girl who had hurt me, and left me standing at the funeral of our friendship.

I climbed into the town car, the silence of the interior wrapping around me.

"The airport," I told the driver. "Private terminal."

I pulled out my phone.

I opened the group chat one last time.

I typed: I leave you both to her.

Sent.

I popped the back of the case and removed the SIM card.

I rolled down the window.

With a sharp snap, I broke the little plastic chip in half and flicked it onto the driveway.

It disappeared into the grass, gone forever.

"Drive," I said.

Luca Rossi POV

The waiting room at Mercy Hospital was finally empty.

Sofia was fine.

The doctors said it was mild whiplash, nothing permanent, but she was wearing a neck brace that looked three sizes too big. It swallowed her whole, making her look like a fragile doll that had been carelessly tossed aside.

"I'm so glad you came," she whispered, her fingers tightening around Matteo's hand. "I thought I was going to die."

I checked my watch.

It had been four hours.

My stomach tightened. We missed the dorm move-in window.

"We should go check on Elena," I said, the guilt already itching under my skin. "She's probably pissed we didn't show up to help unpack."

"Buy her flowers," Sofia suggested weakly. "She loves lilies."

We dropped Sofia off at her apartment with a nurse and drove straight to the University of Chicago. We stopped at a high-end florist and bought a massive bouquet of white lilies. They were crisp, pristine, and ridiculous. The kind that said I'm sorry I'm an idiot, please forgive me.

We pulled up to the main residential gate, the engine of my car purring impatiently.

"Call her," Matteo said, staring at the brick buildings.

I dialed her number.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

I frowned, pulling the phone away from my ear to stare at the screen.

"Service is down," I said, though the bars on my screen were full. "Let's just go in."

We walked up to the security booth.

"Delivery for Elena Vitiello," I said, flashing my winning smile—the one that usually opened doors. "Freshman dorms."

The guard typed into his computer, his face bored.

He frowned.

"Vitiello?" he asked. "Spell it."

"V-I-T-I-E-L-L-O," I said slowly, leaning in. "Daughter of the Underboss. You should have her flagged as VIP. Check the donor list if you have to."

The guard shook his head, unimpressed by my tone.

"I have no record of an Elena Vitiello enrolled here."

My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

"Check again," Matteo growled, slamming his hand against the window ledge. "She transferred her enrollment months ago."

"I'm looking at the active roster, son," the guard said, turning his monitor slightly away. "She's not here."

We didn't wait for him to finish. We ran back to the car.

I drove to the Estate. I broke every speed limit, weaving through traffic like a madman. Something was wrong. The silence from her phone wasn't just anger. It was absence.

We screeched up to the iron gates of the Vitiello mansion, tires smoking.

The family guards were there. Armed. They stepped in front of the car, rifles raised in a way that wasn't ceremonial.

"Open the gate!" I yelled, leaning out the window. "We need to see Elena!"

The head of security, a man named Rocco who had taught us how to shoot when we were barely tall enough to hold a gun, walked up to the driver's side.

His face was stone.

"Turn around, boys," Rocco said.

"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice rising. "Is she inside?"

Rocco looked at the flowers in the passenger seat. He looked at them like they were garbage.

"Miss Elena has left the state," Rocco said.

The world stopped spinning.

"What do you mean left the state?" Matteo asked, his voice cracking under the weight of the words. "For how long?"

Rocco adjusted his grip on his rifle.

"Indefinitely."

"Where did she go?" I screamed, slamming the steering wheel.

"Not your concern anymore," Rocco said coldly. "You are not welcome on Vitiello land. Turn around. Or we open fire."

We turned around. We drove to the registrar's office in the city, the only place that would have her records. Matteo dragged the clerk out of his chair by his collar.

"Check it again!" Matteo roared.

"She withdrew!" the clerk squeaked, terrified. "Months ago! The transcript request was sent to... here!"

He pointed at the screen.

I looked. The words blurred for a heartbeat, then sharpened into a nightmare.

Columbia University. New York.

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

"New York," Matteo whispered, his face draining of color. "Luca. That's Moretti territory."

It wasn't just a different school.

It was a different world. It was the lion's den.

The New York Famiglia and the Chicago Outfit had a truce, but it was as thin as ice. Soldiers didn't just walk into New York.

And Elena... Elena had walked right into the arms of the enemy.

"She belongs to us!" Matteo roared, kicking the heavy oak desk.

"She did," I said, staring at the screen where her name blinked next to a city that felt a million miles away.

"Until we chose the rat."

Elena Vitiello POV

The Gulfstream kissed the tarmac at JFK, settling with a heavy, expensive finality.

I looked out the window.

New York rose up to meet me in shades of steel and concrete. It didn't look welcoming. It looked like a fortress.

Good.

I was done with soft things.

The flight attendant unsealed the hatch, and the cabin pressure equalized with a hiss. The wind whipped my hair across my face as I stepped onto the stairs.

A phalanx of black SUVs waited on the tarmac.

Men in dark suits stood like statues by the doors. They weren't slouching. They weren't checking their phones. They were soldiers. Real ones, eyes scanning the perimeter, hands hovering near concealed holsters.

In front of the lead car stood a man.

He was tall. Imposing.

Broad shoulders filled out a suit that cost more than my tuition. He wasn't wearing a coat, despite the biting chill. He seemed impervious to it, as if the cold didn't dare touch him.

His hair was dark, swept back, revealing a face that was all sharp angles and hard lines.

Dante Moretti.

The Capo of New York.

My betrothed.

I walked down the stairs. My arm throbbed in its sling. Every step sent a jolt of pain radiating through my shoulder, but I kept my spine straight.

I reached the bottom.

Dante stepped forward.

He didn't smile. No softness marred the brutal elegance of his features. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and terrifyingly focused. They swept over me, dissecting me, cataloging everything.

The sling.

The pale skin.

The lack of fear.

"Elena Vitiello," he said.

His voice was a low rumble, dark and textured like gravel grinding under a heavy boot.

"Dante Moretti," I replied.

I didn't curtsy. I didn't offer my hand to be kissed. I met his gaze head-on.

A flicker of something passed through his eyes. Respect? Amusement?

"Welcome to New York, principessa," he said.

Then, he moved.

He reached out and opened the car door for me himself.

His men didn't move, but I saw their eyes widen slightly before they disciplined their expressions. A Capo didn't open doors. Not unless he wanted to make a statement.

"Thank you," I said.

I slid into the leather seat. It was warm. He must have had the heat running, waiting for me.

He got in beside me. The door closed, sealing us in a heavy, soundproofed silence.

"Your father sent your files," Dante said as the car began to move, gliding smoothly onto the exit ramp. "But he left out the details of your injury."

He looked at my sling.

"A burn," I said.

"Accident?"

"Betrayal."

Dante turned his head fully toward me. The air in the car grew heavy, charged with a sudden, violent potential.

"Names?" he asked.

"Irrelevant," I said, keeping my voice steady. "They are in the past."

"Nothing is irrelevant," Dante said softly. "Especially not when it marks what is mine."

A shiver went down my spine.

It wasn't fear.

It was the sudden realization that I had traded two boys who played with guns for a man who was the weapon.