Alessia POV

Rain hammered the sludge around me, my broken arm throbbing in sync with the poison clawing my gut. Damien Cobb loomed like a shadowed reaper, Colt gleaming under the flickering gas lamp. His thumb flicked the safety—click. Those charming eyes held only death.

No begging. No truth about Falcone's poison. One desperate play.

"Your uncle, Clarence Cobb," I rasped, voice raw over the storm. "Killing a Caporegime here? Witnesses. Messy. You'll show up to him reeking of street blood, late for your cousin's screw-up. Waste of a Don's time, Mr. Cobb."

His grip tightened, eyes boring into my mud-streaked face. Seconds stretched eternal. Pride warred with urgency in that predatory stare. Finally, the barrel dipped. "Pray we don't meet again, Harrington." Venom dripped colder than rain. Not mercy—efficiency. I was trash for later.

He turned to his unscathed Cadillac, Luca hovering. "Boss—"

A glare silenced him. Engine roared. Tires spun, veering precise. Mud exploded from a puddle, icy filth drenching me head to toe. Laughter echoed faint from the car—mocking, aristocratic—before taillights vanished into the night.

Humiliation burned deeper than poison. John Harrington's son, reduced to a gutter rat. Vision blackened as toxin surged. Last thought: family.

...

Fevered darkness shattered. I jolted awake in my bedroom, Harrington manor creaking under relentless rain. Sweat soaked the sheets; left arm splinted by Mr. Peters, who'd dragged me from the wreck. Poison purged, but nightmare lingered.

Rain poured eternal. No Alessandro suit—flowing skirts clung to my skin. Damien strode from shadows, no gun. A blade kissed my throat, cold as his smile. "A woman playing at men's tables? Deceiving a Don, Principessa (Little Princess)? Vendetta demands your Harringtons erased from Chicago."

His whisper slithered like silk over steel, laughter echoing doom.

I gasped awake, heart slamming. Secret teetered eternal. Passive hiding was death. To shield Angela, Eden—family—I needed power. Even unveiled, untouchable. No more prey. Time to hunt.

Alessia POV

The echoes of my nightmare faded, leaving behind a cold, diamond-hard resolve. Passive hiding was a death sentence.

"The dockworkers' strike," I rasped, looking at the two remaining pillars of the Harrington family. The dim lamplight of my bedroom cast long shadows over my splinted arm. "We use it. We bring a solution to Clarence Cobb. It's our only way to secure a seat at the table."

"No, *mio nipote*(my grandson)," Nonna Elena sobbed, her trembling fingers clutching her rosary. "We have bled enough. The Cobbs are sharks. They will tear you apart."

Mr. Peters, our Consigliere, remained silent by the door. His sharp, aged eyes calculated the suicidal risk of my plan against the desperate need for our survival. He knew the weight I carried.

"Enough for tonight," Mr. Peters finally murmured, stepping forward to guide my weeping grandmother away from the bed. "The family's only son needs his rest."

*The family's only son.* The words hung in the air, a heavy reminder of the bindings crushing my chest and the razor's edge I walked every day.

Once the door clicked shut behind Nonna, I looked back at Peters. The softness vanished from my eyes. "The crash. We don't mention Falcone's poison. Tell the streets Damien Cobb's Cadillac ran me off the road."

Peters frowned slightly. "A formal complaint to the Commission?"

"No. That reeks of weakness," I said coldly. "Just whispers. Plant it with the *Associates* and rival Consiglieres. Let them think Chicago's untouchable Don is a reckless bully who targets crippled families."

Peters' eyes gleamed with dark approval. He nodded and slipped out of the room. He didn't know the whole truth—that my knuckles still ached from cracking Damien's jaw. That was a secret I would take to the grave.

*

A month later, the suffocating scent of medicine was replaced by the rich aroma of Cuban cigars and fine British wool at Luigi's Tailors. My ribs still ached, but the splint was gone, hidden beneath the crisp white shirt I was being fitted for.

Colin Mcintosh lounged on a tufted velvet sofa near the three-way mirror, swirling a glass of amber bourbon.

"You clean up well, Alessandro," Colin drawled, his eyes gleaming with a careless, aristocratic boredom. "Makes me wonder about that twin sister of yours. Eden, right? With looks like yours, I'd love an introduction."

Ice flooded my veins. In our world, speaking casually of an unmarried mafia princess was a profound disrespect. It was a threat to her purity, to our honor.

I snatched the heavy steel cigar cutter from the mahogany table and closed the distance between us in two strides. Before Colin could blink, I twisted my fist into his expensive silk tie, hauling him halfway off the sofa.

"Speak my sister's name again," I hissed, dropping my voice to a lethal, gravelly baritone, "and I will garrote your tongue myself."

Colin paled, the bourbon sloshing over his knuckles. He saw the genuine murder in my eyes—the fury of a brother, the ruthlessness of a Capo. "Alright, alright! My apologies, Harrington. I crossed a line."

I shoved him back onto the cushions, my chest heaving against the tight bindings.

Colin tugged at his collar, desperate to shift the suffocating tension. "Christ, you're as high-strung as they say Cobb is. You hear the whispers? That he ran you down for sport?" He let out a nervous chuckle. "They say he's a sadistic bastard who enjoys the kill."

The brass bell above the tailor shop door chimed.

The temperature in the room plummeted to absolute zero. The heavy silence that followed wasn't just quiet; it was the breathless terror of prey realizing the predator was already in the den.

Damien Cobb stood in the doorway.

He was a vision of lethal elegance in a flawless charcoal three-piece suit. His dark hair was swept back, and those deep, charming eyes held a terrifying emptiness. He had heard every word.

His gaze swept the room, lingering on the terrified tailor who had frozen in the corner, before locking onto Colin.

"Keep your head up, Mcintosh," Damien purred, his voice like silk wrapping tightly around a throat. He took a slow, deliberate step onto the Persian rug. "Let me see if I truly look the part of a sadistic bastard."

Colin began to shake, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. He couldn't form a single word.

The air turned toxic with impending violence. I knew Damien wasn't here for Colin. He was here for the architect of those whispers. Me.

I stepped forward, putting myself between the trembling heir and the Don of Chicago. I met Damien's predatory stare, refusing to let him see the frantic beating of my heart.

"The words were mine to entertain, Mr. Cobb," I said, my voice steady. "I request your judgment."

Damien POV

The leather of my armored Cadillac V-16 cradled me like a throne, Cuban cigar smoke curling lazy in the dim interior. Chicago's gray streets blurred past, but my mind dragged back to that rain-lashed night a month ago. Harrington's rickety Ford slamming into me-too precise for accident. That sissy kid, Alessandro, tumbling out like gutter trash, purple lips and blood. He cracked my jaw with a lucky swing, then vomited black bile all over my suit, stalling my rush to Uncle Clarence over my idiot cousin's fuck-up in Detroit.

Falcone scum had met him hours before. No coincidence. A pawn's gambit to test Cobb steel. I could've ended him then, Colt kissing his temple. But a real Don doesn't soil his hands on vermin. Vendetta simmers sweeter cold. That pale, defiant face? It'd cost him everything.

The tailor shop loomed. Luigi's-sanctuary for peacocks. Laughter leaked through the door crack. McIntosh's drawl: "Cobb's a sadistic bastard who enjoys the kill. Ran you down for sport, Harrington?"

My blood turned to naphtha. Whispers I'd planted? No. This was the boy's work-womanish backstabbing. I shoved the door open. Absolute zero descended.

Eyes flicked: trembling tailor, frozen like a corpse. McIntosh on the sofa, sweating rivers. Harrington stepped forward, shielding the fool. "The words were mine to entertain, Mr. Cobb. I request your judgment."

Silk over steel, I purred at McIntosh, "Head up, McIntosh. Prove I look the sadistic part." He quaked, bourbon spilling. "R-repeat it."

He choked it out, voice cracking. Pathetic.

I glided to Harrington, close enough to smell his clean wool and faint fear-sweat. Fingertips brushed his tie, straightening it with mock care. "Lies and disrespect in Chicago? Blood pays, boy." My whisper slithered low. "Kneel. Both of you. Apologize to your Don."

McIntosh hit the Persian rug first, blubbering. Harrington? Rigid, those almond eyes blazing mutiny. No tremble in that slender frame-not a shred of a man's grit. John Harrington's whelp? Bullshit. Too delicate, chin too soft.

Satisfaction coiled, dark and sweet. But playtime's pivot.

I stepped back, voice booming for the mirrors, the street. "Gentlemen. I'm here to atone for that unfortunate crash last month. My deepest regrets, Mr. Harrington."

Shock cracked his composure-wary flicker in those pretty eyes. Trap sprung. Accept, and his whispers were petty tantrums. Refuse? Insult a Don's grace. Uncle Clarence would hear of my magnanimity, paving my plea for that cousin's worthless hide.

I watched him squirm, pulse visible at his throat. Delicious.