The Vitiello estate kitchen was a sprawling expanse of stainless steel and cold marble, a barren landscape that mirrored the man who owned it.

I wasn't the mistress of the house anymore. I was the help.

"Too hot," Sofia declared, pushing the bowl of soup away.

It skidded across the counter before tipping over the edge and shattering on the floor.

Scalding tomato bisque splattered onto my bare legs. The heat was searing, but I didn't flinch. Inside, I was too numb to care.

"Clean it up," Dante commanded. He sat at the head of the island, reading a newspaper, not even glancing at the burn turning my skin an angry, blistered red.

I got down on my knees.

My LVAD bag bumped against my hip, the heavy battery pack dragging down the waistband of the maid’s uniform I had been forced into.

*Whir-click-whir.*

It was the only sound in the room besides the scraping of ceramic shards.

"You missed a spot," Sofia said.

She stood up, her high heel coming down hard on my hand.

I gasped, biting my lip until copper filled my mouth. She ground her heel into my knuckles, twisting it for maximum pain.

"Dante," she whined, turning to him with wide, innocent eyes. "She's looking at me like she wants to kill me."

Dante looked up sharply. He saw his fiancée—the woman he believed had saved his life—being glared at by the daughter of his father's murderer.

He rose, crossed the distance in two predatory strides, and drove his boot into my ribs.

The air left my lungs in a violent rush. I curled into a ball, clutching my side where the tube entered my abdomen. Agony exploded, white and blinding.

"Don't you ever look at her with disrespect," Dante growled.

He grabbed me by the hair, dragging me across the floor. "You need to cool off."

He dragged me through the hallways, past the judgmental stares of his ancestors' portraits, down into the basement. He kicked open the heavy steel door of the industrial meat locker—The Cooler.

He hurled me inside.

I skidded across the frosted metal floor, hitting a hanging carcass of beef. The cold hit me instantly. It wasn't just cold; it was a physical assault. My circulation was already poor because of the pump. Cold was dangerous. It thickened the blood. It made the machine work harder.

"Dante," I chattered, my teeth clashing together. "The battery... the cold drains it..."

"Good," he said, his hand on the door handle. "Think about your father while you freeze."

The door slammed shut. Darkness swallowed me.

I huddled in the corner, pulling my knees to my chest in a futile attempt to conserve heat. The cold bit into my bones.

As hypothermia set in, reality blurred. I saw Dante from three years ago, sitting by my hospital bed, holding my hand, promising me forever.

*“I’ll burn the world for you, Elena.”*

Now, he was the fire, and I was the witch burning at the stake.

Time lost its meaning. My fingers turned blue. The *whir-click-whir* of my heart pump began to slow, the rhythm struggling against the thickening blood.

*Beep. Beep. Beep.*

The low battery alarm.

I closed my eyes, welcoming the silence.

Abruptly, the door was wrenched open. Harsh light flooded in. A guard stood there, looking terrified.

"Boss says bring her up. Sofia cut her finger. She needs a bandage."

He dragged me out. I couldn't walk; my legs were blocks of ice. He dumped me in the hallway.

Dante was there, carefully wrapping a small band-aid around Sofia’s index finger, then kissing the tip tenderly.

He looked over at me, shivering violently on the floor, my lips blue, my skin gray.

"She's alive?" he asked the guard, sounding disappointed.

"Barely, Boss."

Dante turned back to Sofia. "Let's go to the hospital just to be safe, *amore*. A cut can get infected."

He stepped over me.

I lay there on the cold tile, watching his back retreat. I pulled my phone from my pocket with stiff, trembling fingers. The screen lit up in the dim hallway.

Six days left.

The New York rain was a freezing slurry of ice and gray slush, a biting cold that soaked instantly through the thin fabric of my dress.

We were at the cemetery. Ahead, the Vitiello family mausoleum loomed against the slate sky, a dark palace for the dead.

"Get out," Dante ordered from the climate-controlled warmth of his armored SUV.

I stepped onto the wet asphalt, my legs trembling. My body was a tapestry of bruises from the kitchen, my lungs rattling with the fluid congestion of pneumonia earned in the walk-in cooler.

"Your father denied my father his life," Dante said, rolling down the window just an inch to let his voice carry over the wind. "You will pay respects."

He pointed to the path leading to the crypt. It wasn't paved. It was covered in crushed gravel and, for today, scattered with hot coals he had ordered his men to lay down. A 'Walk of Fire'—an old Sicilian penance.

"Crawl," he said.

I looked at him, panic seizing my chest. "Dante, please. My machine..."

"Crawl, or I turn off the battery right now."

He held up the remote.

I dropped to my knees. The sharp gravel sliced through my skin instantly, mingling with the biting cold of the rain. The heat from the coals radiated up, singeing the hem of my dress before I had even moved.

I began to move.

Every inch was agony. The stones gouged. The coals seared. I could smell the acrid scent of my own skin scorching. Blood mixed with the rain, leaving a diluted red trail behind me.

Dante drove the car slowly beside me, matching my torturous pace. Sofia was in the passenger seat, laughing at something on her phone. She held a cup of hot chocolate, the steam rising mockingly in the cold air.

"Look, Dante," she giggled, gesturing vaguely at me. "She looks like a dog."

Dante didn't laugh. He just watched, his face a mask of stone. "Dogs are loyal. She is the daughter of a traitor."

I kept crawling.

*Whir-click-whir.*

The machine embedded in my chest was my only companion. I focused on the mechanical rhythm. If it stopped, I stopped.

I reached the grave. My knees were shredded meat. My palms were blistered burns.

Dante got out of the car. He walked over to me, grabbed the back of my neck in a vice grip, and slammed my forehead against the cold marble of his father's tombstone.

*Crack.*

Warm blood trickled down my face, mixing with the rain and blinding one eye.

"Apologize," he hissed into my ear.

"I'm sorry," I sobbed into the stone. "I'm sorry."

"Louder."

"I'M SORRY!" I screamed, my voice tearing raw through my throat.

Dante released me. I slumped against the grave, a broken doll discarded in the mud.

"Get up," he said, wiping his hand on a silk handkerchief. "We have a party to plan."

I looked up at him through one swollen eye, vision blurring. "Party?"

"Sofia's birthday is coming up," he said, wrapping an arm around Sofia as she stepped out of the car, stepping delicately over my blood in her designer heels. "She wants a grand celebration. A wedding theme."

My heart—the metaphorical one, the soul I still possessed despite the plastic pump in my chest—shattered.

"But..." I whispered, my voice barely audible over the rain. "We were supposed to get married on her birthday."

"Exactly," Dante said, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "You already did the planning. The flowers, the venue, the music. It’s all ready. We’ll just change the name on the card."

He opened the car door for Sofia.

"You can walk back," he said.

They drove away, taillights fading into the mist. I lay on my parents' grave, the rain washing away my blood, realizing that my dream wedding was now the celebration of my torture.

The Grand Ballroom of the Vitiello estate was a sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns.

Overhead, the chandeliers dripped heavy crystal, casting a golden light that felt abrasive and artificial against the hollow darkness inside me.

I stood in the corner, wearing a plain black dress that blended into the shadows, holding a tray of champagne. I wasn't a guest. I was a prop.

The High Families were there—the Russos, the Gambinos. They all knew who I was. They whispered behind their hands, their eyes darting from Dante to me like vultures circling a carcass.

"Look at the traitor's daughter," a woman whispered loud enough for me to hear.

"How does he let her live?"

"He's playing with his food," her husband replied, laughing darkly.

Dante stood in the center of the room, Sofia clinging to his arm like a parasite. She was wearing *my* dress. The custom Vera Wang I had designed for my wedding.

It hung loose on her slender frame, but she wore it with a smug, possessive pride.

"Attention everyone," Dante’s voice boomed, instantly silencing the room.

He turned to Sofia, his expression softening into a mask of adoration. "To my savior. The woman who gave me a heart when mine was failing."

Applause thundered around me. It felt like a physical blow to the chest. *I* gave him life. *I* lay in that hospital bed for months while he recovered. And now, he was thanking the thief.

"I have a gift," Dante said. He snapped his fingers.

A guard brought forward a velvet box. Dante opened it. Inside lay the Emerald of Sicily—a necklace that had been in the Vitiello family for generations.

He had fastened it around my neck two years ago, swearing on his life that it would never leave me.

"Sofia," he said, fastening it around her throat. "It finally rests on a neck worthy of it."

Sofia touched the gems, her eyes gleaming with greed. She looked at me across the room and smiled. She beckoned me over.

I walked toward them, my legs heavy as lead.

"Elena," Sofia cooed, fingering the large central emerald. "Doesn't it look beautiful?"

"Yes," I said, my voice hollow.

"You know," Sofia said, loud enough for the circle around us to hear. "I heard you have a match for Dante's blood type. Since my heart is still so... fragile from the transplant, maybe you should donate yours to me. It’s the least you could do."

The room went silent.

Dante looked at me. For a second, I saw a flicker of something—confusion?—in his eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Give her your heart, Elena?" he mused, his tone turning cruel. "But you don't have one to give, do you? You’re heartless. Just like your father."

I looked at him. I wanted to rip open my shirt, show him the scars, show him the machine keeping me alive. But what was the point? He had chosen his truth.

"I have nothing left to give you, Dante," I said softly. "You took it all."

Sofia sneered, wrinkling her nose. "Ugh, get away from me. You smell like antiseptic and desperation."

She shoved me.

We were standing by the open French doors leading to the terrace, overlooking the estate lake. I stumbled back, my balance lost. My heel caught on the uneven stone threshold.

I fell.

The water was black and freezing. I hit the surface with a splash that silenced the party.

The cold water rushed into my nose, my mouth. The heavy battery pack of my LVAD weighed me down like an anchor. I sank.

Above me, the lights of the ballroom shimmered like distorted stars.

I didn't swim.

Why would I? The water was quiet. There was no pain here. No Dante. No betrayal.

I let the air leave my lungs in a rush of bubbles. I closed my eyes, and for the first time in five days, I felt peace.