Seraphina POV

The heavy thud of the lock engaging felt like dirt hitting my coffin. I sank to the cold hardwood floor, the reality of Julian’s threat suffocating me. New York. The Commission. In two days, I would be paraded before Don Augusto Viti and the most ruthless men in the country, branded as Julian Moretti’s conquered property. It was the ultimate desecration of the Marino name.

Physical resistance was useless. The estate was a fortress, and I was a ghost trapped within its walls. I closed my eyes, desperately searching the archives of my memory for anything—anyone—who could shatter Julian’s absolute power.

My mind drifted back to my father’s study, years ago. Don Antonio Marino, a man who feared nothing, had spoken a name with a heavy, uncharacteristic gravity. *Damien Falcone.* The Don of the Chicago Outfit. They called him *The Phantom*. He was a myth of absolute violence and unfathomable ruthlessness, a force that existed beyond the neat, controlled borders of Julian’s world. I didn't know him. I had never seen his face. But in the pitch-black of my cage, Damien Falcone became my desperate prayer. The mere existence of a monster greater than Julian was the only thread keeping my sanity intact.

But prayers wouldn't stop tomorrow's flight.

When the sun rose on the day before our departure, a cold, lethal clarity settled over me. If Julian needed a flawless, beautiful trophy to satisfy his ego and prove his dominance to The Commission, I would deny him. I would give him a rotting corpse.

Over the past three years, I had memorized the chemical makeup of the sedatives they forced upon me. I also knew the decorative oleander plant in the corner of my room was highly toxic.

I spent the afternoon crushing the leaves, extracting the bitter, milky sap, and mixing it into the water I drank. In the months since I’d discovered the truth, I had learned the chemical makeup of the sedatives they forced upon me.

I drank the lethal cocktail without a single tremor in my hand.

The reaction was violent and merciless. Within an hour, fire tore through my veins. I collapsed onto the Persian rug, my body seizing as a blistering fever spiked. Acid burned my throat as I violently retched, my vision tunneling into darkness. When the maid finally opened the door and screamed, I smiled through the agony. I had won.

Or so I thought.

I woke not to the peaceful void of death, but to the sharp, invasive sting of a needle.

My eyelids fluttered open. I wasn't in a hospital. I was still in my gilded cage. The dawn light bled through the windows, painting the room in bruised purples. Julian stood at the foot of the bed, his face an impassive mask of cruelty, while a private doctor adjusted an IV drip taped to my arm.

"I appreciate your theatrics, Seraphina," Julian murmured, his voice devoid of any warmth. He checked his gold watch. "But it's time to board."

I tried to speak, to thrash, but my muscles were entirely paralyzed by whatever heavy counter-agents the doctor was pumping into my bloodstream. I was a prisoner in my own failing body, my mind agonizingly sharp while my limbs remained dead weight.

Julian stepped back, giving a curt nod. Two maids rushed in. They stripped my sweat-soaked clothes and wrestled me into a heavy, suffocating designer dress. They painted over my deathly pallor with rouge and lipstick, treating me like a lifeless porcelain doll.

"Take her," Julian commanded.

Two massive Soldiers stepped into the room. They hauled me to my feet, their iron grips bruising my upper arms. My legs dragged uselessly across the carpet as they carried me out of the room, down the endless corridors, and out the front doors.

The crisp, biting morning air hit my face. A black, armored SUV idled on the gravel driveway, a steel beast waiting to swallow me. The Soldiers shoved me into the expansive leather backseat. Julian slid in beside me, immaculate in his tailored suit, casually adjusting his cuffs as if he hadn't just dragged a dying woman from her bed.

The heavy doors slammed shut. The tinted windows sealed us in, cutting off the estate and the rising sun. The engine purred to life, and the SUV glided smoothly down the drive, carrying me toward the private airstrip and the waiting eyes of the underworld.

Seraphina POV

The armored SUV rolled to a halt, the crunch of gravel beneath its tires signaling the end of my brief, dark ride. The heavy doors were yanked open, and the biting, salt-laced wind of the Long Island coast whipped across my face.

The two Soldiers hauled me out. My legs were practically useless, dragging against the asphalt, but the freezing morning air pierced through the heavy fog of the sedatives just enough to clear my mind. Looming ahead on the tarmac was a silver Gulfstream G650, a sleek beast waiting to carry me to my execution.

I forced my heavy head up, using every ounce of willpower I possessed to stop my trembling. I looked at Julian. He stood impeccably dressed against the bleak, gray sky, watching my pathetic struggle with mild amusement.

"Are you really going to do this?" My voice was a raspy, broken whisper, but the venom in it was unmistakable. "Are you going to parade a half-dead woman before the old men of The Commission?"

Julian paused at the base of the airstairs, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

"They won't see a conqueror, Julian," I pushed on, my chest heaving against the suffocating fabric of the designer dress. "They will see your fear. You are so terrified of the Marino name, so threatened by a ghost, that you have to drug a woman just to prove you own her. You're going to be a laughingstock."

For a second, the wind seemed to stop. I waited for the flash of anger, for the strike that would prove I had pierced his massive ego.

Instead, Julian stepped closer. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the metallic tang of the jet fuel. He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a pristine silk handkerchief, and gently, almost tenderly, wiped a faint trace of dried blood from the corner of my mouth—a lingering testament to my poisoned rebellion.

"On the contrary, *mia cara*," he murmured, his lips curving into a chilling, flawless smile. "They will see that even a proud, wounded lioness can only whimper at my feet."

The last ember of my hope turned to ash. He didn't care about looking honorable. He reveled in the desecration. He gave a slight nod, and the Soldiers dragged me up the stairs, my heels scraping against the metal steps.

Inside, the private jet was a masterpiece of beige leather and polished mahogany. It was the most luxurious cage in the world. They dropped me into a wide seat, buckling me in as if I were a fragile, precious doll. Julian took the seat across the aisle, opening a leather-bound folder without sparing me another glance.

The engines roared to life. As the plane accelerated and tore away from the earth, the sheer, crushing weight of my powerlessness pinned me to the seat. I closed my eyes, the hum of the cabin vibrating in my bones, and let the darkness pull me backward.

*The scent of rich Cuban cigars and aged leather filled my senses.*

I was fifteen again, standing in the center of my father’s study. The walls were lined with old photographs and the Marino family crest. I was trembling, but not from drugs. I had stolen Don Antonio’s favorite Beretta, terrified that his scheduled sit-down with the Russian Bratva would end in his death.

My father hadn't yelled. He had walked around his massive mahogany desk and forced me to look at the crest.

"There are no cowards in the Marino family, Seraphina," his deep, gravelly voice echoed in the room. "Honor is our only armor. You think you are protecting me by hiding my weapon, but you are shaming me. You are shaming our shared name."

"She's just a girl, Papa. She was scared," Marco’s voice had chimed in from the doorway. My older brother, always my shield.

Don Antonio had raised a hand, silencing his Underboss instantly. He looked down at me, his eyes hard but filled with a grim truth. "A soldier's fate is to die on the battlefield. A Don's fate is to die for the honor of his family. Never strip us of that dignity."

*Never strip us of that dignity.*

The memory faded, leaving me in the cold reality of the cabin. My breathing steadied. The tears that had threatened to fall dried up, replaced by a freezing, unbreakable resolve.

My father and Marco had bled for that honor. They had died for it. And here I was, letting Julian Moretti trample their legacy because I was afraid of the humiliation. My despair was the ultimate betrayal of their sacrifice.

I couldn't fight Julian with my fists, and I couldn't escape this plane. But I could survive. I would endure the stares of Don Augusto Viti and the rest of the Commission. I would let them think I was broken.

Personal grief melted away, forging into the cold steel of *Vendetta*. I would live through New York, not for myself, but to become the blade that would eventually slit Julian Moretti's throat.

The heavy sedatives dragged at my consciousness again, pulling me down into a dark, restless sleep, where the ghosts of my family were waiting.