Alessa POV

The engine of the Pagani hummed a low, vibrant note against the base of my spine, a beast waiting to be unleashed. Chicago’s skyline loomed ahead, a jagged jaw of steel and glass ready to chew me up and spit me out. Or so they hoped.

I was cruising down the main artery of the city, the winter sun glinting off the dirty snow piled on the curbs. My grip on the leather steering wheel was relaxed, but my eyes scanned every shadow, every movement. Sicily had taught me that: paranoia is just another word for survival.

Up ahead, the traffic flow stuttered. A delivery truck had jackknifed awkwardly across the right lane, forcing cars to bottle-neck. It looked like a mundane city inconvenience, the kind that made businessmen late for their mistresses.

But then I saw them.

Three men in heavy coats lingering near the truck. They weren't checking the engine. Their hands were busy near the ground, and a glint of silver caught the light. A steel cable, pulled taut across the only open gap.

It was a trap. Crude. Amateurish. Designed to rip the carbon fiber bumper off my car and leave me stranded, a humiliated princess with a broken toy.

"Predictable," I muttered.

I didn't brake.

Instead, I downshifted. The engine screamed, a high-pitched wail that made pedestrians on the sidewalk flinch. I jerked the wheel hard to the left, cutting into the oncoming lane for a split second, then whipped it back. The rear tires lost traction, sliding across the asphalt in a controlled, beautiful drift.

The smell of burnt rubber filled the air. My car danced inches from the steel cable, the rear fender missing the trap by a breath. With a surge of acceleration, I straightened out, leaving the stunned men in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

I glanced up through the windshield as I passed *The Velvet Shadow Club*, a notorious watering hole for the city's degenerate elite. There, on the second-floor balcony, stood Kinsey Blair.

He was leaning over the railing, a glass of scotch in his hand, his face twisted in a mixture of shock and disappointment. He had wanted a crash. He had wanted a show.

I slammed on the brakes, bringing the Pagani to a screeching halt right in front of the club’s entrance.

Silence descended on the street. The Associates who had set the trap froze. The doormen stiffened.

I pushed the door open and stepped out. The cold Chicago wind bit at my face, but the heat of my rage kept me warm. I smoothed the lapels of my Milanese jacket, taking my time, letting them look.

"Is that the best you can do, Kinsey?" I called out, my voice calm, cutting through the quiet street like a razor. "A tripwire? You’ve been watching too many cartoons."

Kinsey’s shock morphed into a sneer. He leaned further over the railing, flanked by his sycophants. "Look who it is! The Nun of Palermo returns." He laughed, a grating, wet sound. "Did you pray for forgiveness, Alessa? Or did you just learn how to kneel properly?"

The men around him snickered.

I didn't flinch. I simply stared up at him, my expression bored.

"You should have stayed in the convent," Kinsey shouted, emboldened by his audience. "At least there you wouldn't embarrass your grandfather. Though, let's be honest, Felton Moreno is just a glorified secretary for the real men of this city. Maybe you can take notes for him."

The air around me seemed to drop ten degrees. Insulting me was one thing. Insulting the Consigliere, my blood, was a death wish.

"Are you finished?" I asked.

"I'm just getting started, *puttana* (whore)," Kinsey spat. "Go back to your car before I have my boys drag you out of it."

I sighed, a small puff of white breath escaping my lips. I didn't look at Kinsey anymore. I looked at the shadow cast by the club’s awning, a patch of darkness that seemed deeper than the rest.

"Kris," I said softly. It wasn't a shout. It was a command.

Movement flickered in the periphery.

Kris, my Enforcer, materialized from the gloom of the balcony behind Kinsey. She was a ghost in a suit, silent and lethal. I had brought her back with me from Italy—a woman with no tongue for gossip, only hands for violence.

Before Kinsey could take another sip of his drink, Kris surged forward.

The glass shattered on the pavement below.

Kinsey shrieked—a high, undignified sound—as Kris grabbed him by the back of his expensive cashmere coat and the belt of his trousers. With effortless strength, Kris lifted the Blair heir off his feet.

"Hey! What the—" Kinsey’s protest was cut short as Kris slammed him against the railing.

"Throw him down," I said, my voice devoid of mercy.

Kris didn't hesitate. She tipped Kinsey over the edge.

Kinsey flailed, his hands scrabbling uselessly at the smooth metal bars, his legs kicking in the empty air. He was dangling now, held only by Kris’s iron grip on his ankle. He hung upside down, twenty feet above the concrete sidewalk, his face turning a mottled purple as blood rushed to his head.

"Alessa! Are you crazy?" Kinsey screamed, swinging wildly. "Pull me up! My mother will kill you!"

I walked closer to the building, looking up at him like he was a particularly ugly gargoyle. The Associates on the street made a move to intervene, but I shot them a glare so venomous they halted in their tracks. They knew the rules. This was between high-ranking families. Interfere, and you die.

"You wanted my attention, Kinsey," I said, tilting my head. "Now you have it."

Kris held him there, a silent statue of judgment, waiting for my next word. The street held its breath.

Alessa POV

"Drop him," I said.

The command was barely a whisper, lost to the wind, but Kris heard it. She always did.

Her fingers opened.

Kinsey didn't have time to scream again. One moment he was flailing against the gray winter sky, and the next, gravity claimed him. He didn't fall like a man; he fell like a sack of wet laundry, limbs loose and uncoordinated.

He hit the pavement with a sound that made my stomach tighten—a wet, heavy crunch that echoed off the brick facades of the surrounding buildings. It was the sound of expensive bone snapping under the weight of arrogance.

A collective gasp ripped through the crowd of Associates and doormen. For a second, nobody moved. Kinsey lay in a heap on the dirty slush, his left leg bent at an angle that nature never intended. Then, the screaming started. A raw, guttural wail of agony that shattered the sophisticated veneer of the Gold Coast.

"You bitch!" one of the Blair Associates roared, his hand twitching toward the inside of his jacket. "Do you have any idea what you've done? This is war! Not even Felton Moreno can save you from this!"

I didn't even look at him. My eyes were fixed on the writhing form of Kinsey Blair.

"Save me?" I repeated, my voice amused. "I'm not the one on the ground screaming for his mother."

I stepped away from the warmth of my Pagani, the heels of my boots clicking rhythmically against the asphalt as I approached the fallen heir. The circle of men parted for me, fear warring with their loyalty. They knew who I was. They knew that touching a Moreno, especially one with a pet monster like Kris, was a one-way ticket to a shallow grave.

Kinsey was clutching his shin, his face pale and slick with sweat. When his eyes met mine, the pain in them was momentarily eclipsed by pure, unadulterated hatred.

"My leg..." he hissed through gritted teeth. "You broke my leg."

I stopped a few feet away, looking down at him with the same detached interest one might show a roadkill. "You should be grateful, Kinsey. If I had let Kris handle you her way, you wouldn't be breathing."

I tilted my head, letting a cruel smile play on my lips. "Look at you. All that bravado, all that talk, and you crumble the moment you hit the real world. Tell me, does Elizbeth Shields know her little puppy breaks so easily?"

The mention of her name acted like a shot of adrenaline. Kinsey pushed himself up on his elbows, spitting blood onto the snow. His vanity was bruised far worse than his body.

"Don't you speak her name!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "You're nothing but a washed-up exile! A *puttana* (whore) who thinks she still matters!"

Foam mixed with blood at the corners of his mouth as his fury mounted. He pointed a shaking finger at me. "I'm going to make you pay for this, Alessa. When my mother is done with your family, I'm going to find you. I'm going to cut out that pretty tongue of yours and put it in a box! It'll make a perfect birthday gift for Elizbeth!"

The street went silent again. Even his own men looked uneasy. In our world, specific threats of mutilation were not thrown around lightly. They were promises. And promises had to be answered.

I didn't recoil. I didn't blink. I felt a cold, sharp clarity settle over me. This was exactly what I needed. He had just given me the justification for escalation.

"My tongue?" I asked softly. I reached up, tapping a manicured fingernail against my lower lip. "That's a very specific price, Kinsey."

I turned my head slightly. Kris had already descended from the balcony. I hadn't seen her move, but suddenly she was there, standing just behind Kinsey's head like the Grim Reaper's shadow.

"He wants my tongue, Kris," I said, my tone conversational. "That seems unfair. I think we should take a down payment first."

I looked back down at Kinsey, my eyes devoid of mercy. "Take his teeth."

Kinsey’s eyes widened in horror. "Wait—no! Don't—"

Kris moved with the speed of a striking viper. She didn't use a weapon. She didn't need one. She grabbed a handful of Kinsey’s hair, jerking his head back, and drove a gloved fist straight into his mouth.

Crack.

The sound was sickeningly distinct, sharper than the breaking of his leg. Kinsey’s head snapped back against the pavement.

Kris didn't stop. She delivered a second blow, then a third, precise and devastating.

When Kris finally let go, Kinsey slumped back, choking. He coughed, and two white incisors, slick with crimson, clattered onto the black asphalt near my boots.

He tried to scream, but it came out as a gurgling sob. His mouth was a ruin of blood and swelling flesh.

I looked at the teeth on the ground, then up at the horrified faces of the Blair Associates. They were trembling.

"Pick him up," I ordered them, my voice cutting through the cold air like a whip.

"The She-Devil..." someone whispered from the shadows of the club entrance. "She's really back."

I smoothed the front of my jacket, turning my back on the carnage. The message had been delivered. The Nun of Palermo was dead. Alessa Moreno had returned, and she didn't pray for forgiveness. She demanded blood.

Alessa POV

Kinsey scrambled backward on the asphalt like a crab, his hands hovering over his ruined mouth. Blood poured through his fingers, staining the pristine cuffs of his dress shirt a deep, violent crimson. He made a sound—a wet, gurgling noise that might have been a command if he still had the teeth to articulate it.

"Kill them!" one of his Associates interpreted, his voice cracking with panic. "Get them!"

Three of the Blair men surged forward. They were clumsy, driven by the desperate need to save face rather than actual courage. They made the mistake of thinking numbers mattered.

I didn't even flinch. I simply checked the time on my diamond-encrusted watch.

Kris moved. It was a blur of motion, efficient and terrifyingly silent. She didn't waste energy on theatrics. She stepped into the guard of the first man, a sickening thud echoing as a palm strike connected with a windpipe. The man dropped, gasping for air that wouldn't come. The second man reached for a weapon, but Kris was already there, sweeping his legs out from under him and driving a boot into his ribs before he hit the ground.

The third man froze, his eyes darting between his fallen comrades and the monster standing before him. Kris tilted her head, her expression hidden behind a dark mask, waiting.

The Associate dropped his hands, backing away. Smart choice.

I walked over to where Kinsey lay panting in the slush. The arrogance that had defined him ten minutes ago had been replaced by the raw, animalistic terror of a prey realizing it was not the predator.

"Look at you," I cooed, my voice dripping with false sympathy. I used the toe of my boot to nudge his chin up. His eyes were wide, watery, and filled with hate. "You're a mess, Kinsey."

He spat a glob of blood at my boot. It missed by inches. "*M-my m-mother...*" he slurred, the words mangled by the gap in his teeth.

"Yes, your mother," I said, stepping back and looking down at him with cold disdain. "Go home to her. Cry on her lap. And when you're done, tell Claudine that Alessa Moreno sends her regards. Tell her I'm coming to collect everything she owes us."

I turned on my heel, the adrenaline humming pleasantly in my veins. Kris fell into step behind me as I slid into the driver's seat of my Pagani. The engine roared to life, a beast waking up, drowning out the pathetic whimpers of the Blair heir.

I didn't look back as I peeled away from the curb, leaving the carnage of the Gold Coast behind.

*

The drive to the Moreno estate was a blur of city lights and speed. My blood was still hot, the violence acting like a stimulant stronger than any espresso. When I turned onto the private road leading to the estate, I didn't lift my foot off the gas.

The iron gates loomed ahead, flanked by high stone walls and surveillance cameras. Usually, one slowed down to a crawl for identification. I accelerated.

The tires screeched in protest as I drifted around the fountain in the main courtyard, coming to a halt inches from the bumper of a parked SUV. Dust swirled in the headlights.

Before the engine had even died, a young Soldier I didn't recognize was marching toward my door. He looked fresh, his suit ill-fitting, his face flushed with self-righteous indignation.

"Hey!" he shouted, slapping his hand on the hood of my car. "Are you crazy? The speed limit on the grounds is fifteen! Step out of the vehicle, now!"

I opened the door, stepping out slowly. The cold wind whipped my hair around my face, but my glare was steady. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me!" The rookie puffed out his chest, reaching for the radio on his belt. " reckless driving is a violation of security protocol. I'm going to have to report this to the Capo—"

"*Cazzo!*" (Fuck!)

The shout came from the guard booth. Leo, a veteran Soldier with graying temples and a scar running through his eyebrow, sprinted toward us. He didn't stop until he was within striking distance of the rookie, and then he delivered a sharp, open-handed slap to the back of the boy's head.

"Shut your mouth, idiot!" Leo hissed, shoving the stunned rookie aside.

Leo turned to me, his posture shifting instantly from aggression to deep respect. He bowed his head slightly. "Principessa. My apologies. He's new. He doesn't know the faces yet."

I looked at the rookie, who was rubbing his head, eyes wide with confusion and dawning horror as he realized he had just tried to arrest a Moreno.

"Teach him, Leo," I said coolly, smoothing the lapels of my jacket. "Before someone less patient than me decides to teach him with a bullet."

"Of course, Principessa. It won't happen again." Leo snapped his fingers, and another guard immediately drove up in a customized golf cart, the seats upholstered in white leather. A bottle of San Pellegrino and a small plate of biscotti sat in the cup holder.

"Don Alfonzo has been expecting you," Leo said, opening the door of the cart for me. "He gave orders that you were to be brought to his study the moment you arrived."

I paused. My grandfather knew. Of course he knew. News of Kinsey's public mutilation would have traveled faster than the wind in this city.

I reached into my purse, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and tossed them at Leo. He caught the bundle reflexively.

"For the trouble," I said, climbing into the cart. I glanced at the rookie one last time. "And buy him a new suit. He looks like a funeral director."

As the cart whisked me toward the imposing front doors of the main house, I took a sip of the sparkling water. The bubbles bit at my tongue, sharp and refreshing. The Don was waiting. Most people would be trembling at the prospect of explaining a street war to the head of the family.

I just smiled. Let them wait. The Queen was back on the board.