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.

Alessa POV

The heavy oak doors of the main house yielded to the guards as I approached. I walked alone down the dimly lit corridor leading to Don Alfonzo’s study. The thick, deep-red Persian carpet absorbed the sharp clicks of my heels, swallowing the sound just as this house swallowed secrets. On either side of the walls, massive oil portraits of past Moreno Dons stared down at me. They wore the tailored suits of different eras, but their painted eyes shared the same cold, judging weight.

Let them judge.

Three years ago, I had walked this exact path after shoving Elizabeth Shields into the freezing, black waters of Lake Michigan. The entire Chicago underworld had trembled at the sheer audacity of it. The traditionalists in our ranks—men like Capo Vario—had celebrated my subsequent exile to a remote Sicilian convent. They thought the nuns and the isolation would file down my claws and teach me a lady's manners. They thought the Moreno Family was finally rid of its most volatile problem.

They were wrong.

I was only back because my grandfather, Consigliere Felton Moreno, had orchestrated the absolute destruction of the Vaughn family’s border smuggling ring. He had bought my return with blood, profit, and undeniable leverage. I hadn't brought back repentance from Sicily. I brought back hellfire, and I was ready to watch them burn.

I pushed open the heavy mahogany doors to the study without bothering to knock.

The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive Cuban cigars, aged whiskey, and the suffocating weight of absolute power. Don Alfonzo Moreno sat behind his massive marble desk like a king on his throne, his face an unreadable mask of weathered stone. To his right stood my grandfather, Felton, his sharp, calculating eyes softening the fraction of a second they landed on me.

And pacing before the desk like an enraged bull was Capo Vario. With his silver hair and rigid adherence to the old ways, Vario was the loudest voice of the family's traditional faction.

"...a reckless, brutal stunt!" Vario was shouting, his face flushed purple. "She will bring the wrath of both the Blairs and the Vaughns down upon us! She is destroying the peace you built, Don!"

I ignored the tension crackling in the room. Bypassing Vario entirely, I strolled over to the crystal decanters on the side table. I poured myself a generous measure of the Don’s prized Macallan. Vario’s rant ground to a sudden halt. He stared at me in sheer disbelief as I sank into the plush leather sofa opposite the Don and propped my boots—still dusted with the slush and grime of the Gold Coast—right onto the center of the priceless antique coffee table.

I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, taking a slow sip. "Keep going," I drawled lazily, waving my free hand. "Don't stop on my account."

Vario trembled with rage. He spun back to the desk, his voice cracking. "Don! Look at her! No remorse! She has absolutely no respect for you, or for the laws of this Family! She needs to be disciplined!"

Before the Don could speak, my grandfather stepped forward. Felton Moreno was a man who commanded armies with a whisper, but his voice now held only a grandfather's fierce, blind devotion.

"Lower your voice, Vario," Felton murmured, though the threat beneath the words was razor-sharp. "You're startling my sweet granddaughter."

I almost laughed. Instead, I offered a theatrical, exaggerated yawn. "It is awfully loud in here."

Vario looked like he might have a stroke. He pleaded with the man behind the desk, his hands gripping the edge of the marble. "Don Alfonzo, I beg you. You must teach her a lesson. For the sake of our survival."

Don Alfonzo finally moved. He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto mine. There was no fury in his gaze, only a calculating, terrifying calm. He spoke in a voice so quiet it commanded absolute silence.

"I will, Vario," the Don said, the words dripping with a dismissive edge that stripped the Capo of all his dignity. "I will 'teach' this brat a lesson."

Vario’s face drained of color. He wasn't stupid; he heard the mockery in the Don's tone, the unspoken confirmation that my actions were already sanctioned. The trial was over, and the verdict was absolute indulgence.