Elena Vitello POV

The apartment was too quiet.

I stood in the living room, surrounded by brown cardboard boxes stacked like a fortress. I told myself I was packing for the move to our new house—a wedding gift from my father.

But the truth clawed at my throat. I wasn't packing. I was extracting myself from a corpse.

The click of the lock shattered the silence.

Luca walked in, a bouquet of red roses in his hand. The kind you grab from a gas station bucket.

"Hey, baby," he said, the smile easy. "Sorry I'm late. Business with the boss."

Liar.

Papa had been at the estate all day, glued to the secure phone, waiting for my call. There was no business.

I took the flowers. They were already wilting, heads bowed in shame.

"Thank you," I said.

He came closer, loosening his tie. He looked tired, but there was a flush on his cheeks. The heat of a man who had just fucked.

There was a smear on his collar.

Bright cherry red lipstick.

I never wore red.

Luca followed my gaze. Froze.

"Ah, damn cocktail waitress," he said quickly, the laugh too loud. "She tripped. Spilled her drink on me. I tried to catch her."

"What a hero you are, Luca," I said. "Always saving people."

He didn't hear the irony.

He leaned in to kiss me.

"Shower," I said, pushing gently at his chest. "You smell like old whiskey."

He grinned, pinching my waist.

"Only for you."

The bathroom door clicked shut. Water started running.

I picked up his shirt from where he'd dropped it on the floor.

I walked to the laundry room. I didn't put it in the hamper.

I turned on the faucet. Hot. Scalding.

I took a rough bar of soap and began to scrub at the collar. I scrubbed at the red stain.

I wasn't washing a shirt. I was scrubbing five years off my life.

I was scrubbing away the eighteen-year-old girl who looked at a low-level soldier with stars in her eyes because he held a door open for her.

I was scrubbing away the stupid hope that loyalty meant something in this world.

The fabric tore. A wet, ripping sound.

I stopped. I threw the rag in the trash.

I walked back to the living room and sat on the couch, staring at the wall.

I thought about the blood oath Luca had taken when he got his button. Family first. Honor above all.

He had broken that code.

In our world, the penalty for betrayal was death.

Too easy. Too kind.

I wanted him to live. I wanted him to watch while I burned his carefully constructed life to ash.

Elena Vitello POV

Luca came out of the shower with a towel slung low on his hips, water dripping down his chest.

To any other woman, he was carved from marble.

To me, he was rotten wood pretending to be stone.

"Come here," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low register that used to make my knees weak.

"Headache," I said, my voice flat. "Wedding stress."

"You think too much, Elena. It's just a party."

"It's a sacrament, Luca."

He rolled his eyes at my piety and turned to the dresser to get dressed.

I reached into the bedside table drawer and pulled out a small velvet box. Ebony.

"I have a gift for you," I said.

He turned, interest flickering in his eyes.

"Early? Bad luck to give gifts before the wedding."

"Open it at the altar," I said. "Promise me. It's a surprise."

He took the box. Weighed it in his hand.

He smiled. That smug, self-satisfied curve of his mouth that told me he thought he had this all figured out.

"I promise." He didn't put it in his pocket. He set it on the nightstand, next to his watch and his loose change. "Don't want to lose it at the club tonight."

He checked himself in the mirror.

"I'll put it in my jacket pocket tomorrow morning."

He didn't know the box didn't hold a ring.

It held a single wedding invitation. Elegant script. A death warrant printed on cardstock.

The groom's name wasn't Luca Moretti.

It didn't matter when he found out.

The ending was already written.

I needed him gone.

The air in the room had become suffocating.

"I need to sleep," I said.

"Goodnight, love. I need to hit the club. Make sure the guys are ready for my bachelor party tomorrow." The club was more important than comforting his stressed fiancée.

He kissed my forehead, dressed quickly, and left. The velvet box sat on the dark wood of the nightstand.

The door clicked shut.

I couldn't sleep. I grabbed my phone and opened my anonymous account.

I searched for Sofia's profile.

It was public.

Stupid, or desperate to be found.

An hour ago, she had posted a new video. The caption read: My Forever.

I clicked play.

The video was shaky, filmed vertically on a phone in low light.

Luca was in it. Wearing the same suit he'd left my bedroom in. On one knee in a club booth. Sofia sat on a velvet couch, fanning herself like a queen holding court.

He held a ring.

Not my ring.

A bigger one. Flashier.

"I promise, baby," he was saying in the video, his words slightly slurred. "As soon as the old man kicks it and I move up, I'm done with Elena. But I need the Vitello name. Just wait."

The camera panned.

I saw Luca's crew. Men I had cooked for. Men I had welcomed into my home.

They were cheering. They were clapping.

They knew. All of them knew.

I wasn't just being betrayed by one man.

I was the punchline of a joke the entire organization was in on.

A cold calm washed over me. The tears froze before they could form.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

I dialed a number I had memorized years ago from my father's private books.

One ring.

"Cavallaro." The voice was low. Gravel on steel.

"This is Elena," I said.

"I know who this is," Dante replied. No surprise.

"I'm sending you a video," I said.

"Send it."

I forwarded it. A full minute of silence on the other end. The kind of silence that precedes an explosion.

Then Dante spoke.

"Do you want his head in a box as a wedding gift?"

"No," I said. "I want his soul in hell."

"Done."

Elena Vitello POV

The Sanctuary was one of those Chicago clubs where the mob laundered money and sins.

I wasn't supposed to be here.

I was a Vitello princess. I belonged in tearooms and charity galas, not hiding in a smoky booth.

But tonight, I wore a black dress that blended with the shadows. My hair was pulled back. The dim lights hid my face.

I saw them in the corner booth.

Luca, holding court like he was king.

His arm draped over Sofia's shoulders.

She was wearing white.

The audacity almost made me laugh.

They were playing a drinking game. A bottle of vodka sat in the center of the table, half empty. One of Luca's soldiers, Marco, spun it.

The bottle pointed at Luca.

"Capo?" Marco slurred, drunk.

"Truth," Luca said, taking a long drag of his cigar. "I got nothing to hide."

Laughter around the table.

"Alright," Marco grinned. "Princess or mistress? Who's better in bed?"

The air in the booth thickened.

Sofia pouted, tracing a finger down Luca's chest with mock innocence.

Luca laughed, exhaling smoke.

"Elena?" he said, loud enough for the strippers to hear. "She lies there. A dead fish. She's a chore."

He pulled Sofia closer, squeezing her thigh.

"But this one? She's a firecracker. She does things Elena can't even spell."

More laughter. Raucous. Cruel.

Sofia giggled, preening.

"But ain't you worried about her old man?" Marco asked.

"Sofia has cancer," Luca said. "She doesn't have much time. I want to comfort her in her final days."

Sofia looked touched, leaning into his chest.

"You know I love Elena. I'll marry her. Spend my life with her. She needs me."

"I just... I don't want to break Sofia's heart. If I could, I'd give Sofia a wedding too."

"This never leaves this room. You keep your mouths shut."

He raised his glass.

"To the princess!" he shouted.

"To the princess!" the crew echoed.

I stood ten feet away in the shadows.

I felt it. Not a snap. A slow, complete tearing inside.

It wasn't my heart. That was already gone.

It was the last thread holding me to the rules. To being a good girl. To the code.

I stepped forward.

Into the light of the booth.

The laughter died.

Marco dropped his glass. It shattered.

Luca looked up. The smile froze on his face.

"Elena?" he choked out.

I didn't look at him. I looked at his crew.

The men who had shared my table.

I reached for the vodka bottle on the table. I poured a measure into a clean glass. Raised it.

"To the princess," I said.

I drank it down.

The burn was welcome. It matched the emptiness in my stomach from three days of not eating.

Luca scrambled to his feet, pushing Sofia off his lap.

"Elena, wait, this isn't—we were just joking—"

I slammed the glass down on the table.

It didn't break, but the sound echoed like a gunshot.

"Sit down, soldier," I ordered.

He froze.

I had never ordered him before.

I turned to Sofia.

She was trembling, clutching her purse to her chest.

"Nice dress," I said, my voice flat. "Good for a funeral."

I turned and walked away.

I didn't run. Women like me don't run.

But when I reached the exit, the combination of hunger and alcohol hit me like a wall. My vision blurred.

The floor tilted, the deck of a sinking ship.

My hand reached for a railing that wasn't there, and the world went dark.