I hadn't gone to the airport. Not yet. Attempting to flee with a broken leg and no plan was suicide. I needed to be smart.

So, I went back to the house one last time.

Jax was lounging in the living room when the guards wheeled me in. He looked up, surprised, mid-sip of his scotch. He probably expected me to stay in the hospital for at least another week.

He set his glass down and walked over, looking guilty now. But the guilt was fleeting. The anger from the accident had faded, replaced by that dismissive charm he used to smooth over felonies.

"Eliana," he said, reaching for the handles of my wheelchair as if reclaiming his property. "I'm glad you're back. Listen, about the stairs... let's just put it behind us. Accidents happen."

Accidents. As if he hadn't made a choice.

He pulled a black card from his pocket. The Centurion card. No limit.

"Why don't you buy yourself something nice? Redecorate the bedroom. Whatever you want."

I looked at the card. It was a piece of plastic that could buy a small island. He was trying to buy my silence. He was trying to buy my forgiveness for choosing her over my life.

I took the card.

Jax smiled, relieved. "Good girl."

The endearment made my skin crawl. I snapped the card in half.

The crack was sharp, echoing in the quiet room like a pistol shot.

Jax's smile faltered. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I don't want your money, Jax," I said, my voice steady. "I don't want your gifts. I don't want your apologies."

"Then what do you want?" he demanded, his patience snapping.

"Nothing from you."

I wheeled myself past him toward the elevator.

"You're being hysterical," he called after me, his voice bouncing off the marble floors. "You'll get over it. You always do."

I went to my room. I didn't redecorate. I purged.

I took every gift he had ever given me. The designer bags. The shoes. The jewelry I hadn't given to Maria.

I shoved them all into trash bags. I piled the bags onto my lap and wheeled them into the hallway, dumping them like refuse.

Then, I opened the drawer where I kept the engagement ring. A five-carat flawless diamond. It felt cold and heavy in my palm.

I wheeled myself to the bathroom and dropped it into the trash can next to the toilet. It landed with a dull thud among used tissues. Fitting.

My phone rang. It was my father.

"Eliana," his voice was tight. Urgent. "Where is Jax?"

"I don't know," I said. "With her, probably."

"Listen to me. The Rossi family... they have something. They claim to have proof of Jax's off-book deals in the harbor. The ones he did for Catalina's father."

I closed my eyes. Of course.

"They're threatening to go to the Commission," my father continued, panic rising in his tone. "If they do, Jax loses his seat. He might lose his life. We need to strategize. Put him on the phone."

"He's not available," I said.

"Eliana, this is life or death!"

"Not my life," I said. "And not my death."

"He is your fiancé!"

"No," I said, cutting the cord. "He's a liability."

I hung up.

I sat there in the silence of my room. I knew exactly what was happening. Jax had exposed the family to protect Catalina. He had broken the rules. And now the wolves were circling.

Normally, I would be the one fixing this. I would be the one forging the documents, making the calls, smoothing the ruffled feathers. I was the Consigliere's daughter. I was the fixer.

But I looked at my broken leg. I looked at the trash can where the ring lay buried in filth.

I wheeled myself to the window. Down below, I saw Jax's car speeding out of the driveway. He was probably going to "fix" it himself. Which meant he was going to shoot someone.

He was going to start a war. For her.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn't going to stand in front of the bullet.

I picked up my phone and dialed a number I had memorized but never used. A contact in New York. A safe house broker.

"I need a flat," I said when the line connected. "Tonight. Cash upfront."

"Name?" the voice asked.

"Eliana," I said. Then I paused. "Just Eliana. No last name."

I hung up. The storm was coming for Jax Viles. And I wasn't going to be his shield anymore.

The glow of the phone screen in my hand cut through the darkness of the hallway, a solitary beacon in the gloom.

For a split second, I actually considered saving him.

My father's call had ended three minutes ago, but the echo of his voice still rattled in my skull.

It was a rasp of sheer panic I had never heard from the Consigliere of the Viles crime family.

He told me Jax was marching straight into a trap set by the Rossi family.

They called it a "negotiation."

In reality, it was a blood sport-a gladiatorial trial designed to prove he hadn't gone soft.

To prove he was still worthy of the crown despite the chaotic mess he'd made protecting Catalina.

He was walking into a slaughterhouse.

For her.

I stared down at his contact name.

*Jax*.

No heart emoji. No affectionate nickname. Just the three sharp letters that used to define my entire existence.

"You're wasting your time," a voice drifted from the shadows, smooth and lethal.

I didn't flinch.

I turned slowly.

Catalina was leaning against the doorframe of the library, idly twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger.

She looked bored.

"He won't answer," she said, stepping into the dim pool of light. "He's busy being a hero. My hero."

"He's walking into an ambush, Catalina," I said, my voice dead flat. "My father says the odds are three to one. He could die tonight."

She smiled.

It wasn't a smile of concern.

It was the smile of a cat watching a bird collide with a windowpane-curious, but unbothered.

"I know," she said.

The air left my lungs in a rush. "You know?"

"I told him the Rossis insulted me," she said, examining the flawless coat on her manicured nails.

"I told him they said he was weak, that he was letting a woman run his house. I told him he needed to make a statement."

"You sent him there?" My grip on the phone tightened until the plastic casing groaned under the pressure. "You sent him to bleed just to stroke your own ego?"

"To test his loyalty," she corrected, her eyes flashing dark with possession.

"He's the heir. I need to know he's willing to burn everything down for me. Even himself. Especially himself."

She took a step closer, invading my personal space with a suffocating confidence.

"That's the difference between us, Eliana. You want him safe. I want him mine. And he needs to prove he belongs to me."

"He's not a dog you train with pain," I whispered, the words trembling.

"Isn't he?" She laughed-a brittle, ugly sound that scraped against the silence. "Watch."

She nodded at my phone.

I looked down.

My thumb hovered over the call button.

If I called him, if I warned him that the Rossis had brought in mercenaries, maybe he would rethink.

Maybe the rational part of him, the part that used to be my best friend, would listen.

I pressed the button.

It rang once.

Twice.

Catalina watched me, her expression unreadable.

On the third ring, the call connected.

"Jax," I breathed out. "Listen to me, the Rossis-"

*Click*.

The line went dead.

He hung up.

I stared at the screen, the call duration reading *00:03*.

He saw my name. He saw I was calling.

And he decided I wasn't worth the bandwidth.

Catalina let out a soft, satisfied hum. "See? He's busy."

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a loud break.

It was the quiet *ping* of a tension wire finally giving way after years of strain.

The fear for his life evaporated. The panic dissolved.

All that was left was a cold, arctic silence.

"You're right," I said, lowering the phone. "He is."

I walked past her.

I didn't run to my father. I didn't call the guards.

I went to my room and closed the door.

Two hours later, the livestream started.

It was a private feed, accessible only to the inner circle.

I sat on the edge of my bed, watching on my tablet.

The "negotiation" was held in an underground warehouse.

The floor was stained concrete. The lighting was harsh, industrial halogen.

Jax stood in the center.

He had taken off his jacket. His white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows, revealing the intricate ink on his forearms.

He looked calm.

Lethal.

Then the Rossis sent their men out.

Three of them. Each holding a blade.

Jax didn't have a weapon.

The fight was brutal. Animalistic.

I watched as the first knife slashed across Jax's chest, turning the crisp white cotton crimson.

I should have felt sick. I should have been screaming.

But I felt like I was watching a stranger on the evening news.

He moved with a terrifying grace-dodging, striking, breaking bone.

He fought like a man possessed.

He fought like a man who had something to prove to the woman waiting at home.

Just not me.

Every punch he threw, every drop of blood he spilled, was a love letter to Catalina.

It was his way of saying, *Look what I can endure for you*.

When he finally snapped the last man's arm and stood panting over the groaning bodies, blood dripping from his chin, the camera zoomed in on his face.

His eyes were wild.

Crazy.

He looked straight into the lens, as if he knew she was watching.

He didn't mouth *I'm okay*.

He mouthed *For you*.

I turned off the tablet.

I didn't cry. I didn't shake.

I just lay back on the pillows and listened to the rain hitting the window.

The man I loved died in that warehouse tonight.

The thing that walked out was just a weapon.

And weapons don't have hearts.

He returned a conqueror, painted in dried blood and arrogance.

I was standing in the foyer when the heavy oak doors swung open. I hadn't intended to be there, but Maria needed help shifting a vase, and my leg had finally healed enough to hobble around with a cane.

Jax strode in first. His shirt hung in tatters, plastered to his skin by a dried maroon crust. His lip was split, swollen and purple. He looked like a wreck, but he walked with the swagger of a god.

Catalina launched herself at him before he even cleared the threshold.

"Jax!" she screamed-a performance worthy of Broadway. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his ruined shirt and sobbing loudly. "I was so scared! I thought I lost you!"

He winced as she jostled his injuries, yet he didn't push her away. Instead, he wrapped his bloodied arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground.

"I told you," he rasped, his voice wrecked. "No one touches you. No one disrespects you."

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply, as if she were the oxygen he had been deprived of.

The household staff stood lined up against the wall, heads bowed in deference. The Capos behind him clapped him on the back. It was a hero's welcome.

I stood by the vase of white lilies, invisible.

Jax finally looked up. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on me. For a second, the adrenaline in his gaze faltered. He saw the cane. He saw the cast on my leg.

But then Catalina whimpered, drawing his attention back. "You're bleeding everywhere, baby. Come, let me clean you up."

"Yeah," he murmured. "Let's go."

He walked right past me. He didn't ask how I was. He didn't ask why I had called. He just walked up the stairs with his prize, leaving a trail of blood droplets on the marble floor that I would probably have to ask Maria to scrub later.

For the next three days, the house became a shrine to his victory. Catalina recounted the story to anyone who would listen, embellishing the details until Jax sounded like Achilles reborn.

I stayed in my room. I kept a laptop hidden under my mattress.

*Expedia. One-way. JFK to LGA. Then a train. Then a new life.*

I wasn't just leaving a relationship. I was defecting from a regime.

On the fourth night, a knock sounded at my door.

It opened before I could answer. Jax stood there. He was cleaned up, stitches marching across his eyebrow and lip. He held a large, velvet box.

He looked... sheepish. It was an expression that used to melt me. Now, it just looked like bad acting.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"You own the house, Jax," I said, not looking up from my book. "You go where you want."

He flinched but stepped inside. He placed the box on the foot of my bed.

"I know things have been... intense," he started, rubbing the back of his neck. "I haven't been around much. The business with the Rossis took everything out of me."

"It's fine," I said.

"It's not fine," he insisted, trying to sound noble. "I've neglected you. I want to make it up to you."

He gestured to the box. "Open it."

I sighed and reached for it. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, was a dress.

It was exquisite. Deep emerald silk, hand-embroidered with gold thread. It was a traditional belly dancing costume, the kind from the region my grandmother was from.

"I remembered you liked that weird dancing stuff," he said, looking proud of himself. "Thought you could wear it for me. Maybe tonight?"

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch my cheek. His thumb grazed my skin, rough and calloused.

"We haven't been together in a while," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "I miss you, Eliana."

I looked down at the dress. It was beautiful. It was expensive.

And it was an insult.

He didn't know *why* I danced. He didn't know it was my escape, my prayer, my art. To him, it was just "weird stuff" I did to entertain him. He saw me as a private stripper, not a dancer.

I pulled away from his touch.

"I can't," I said.

His brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"My leg, Jax," I said, gesturing to the cast. "I can barely walk to the bathroom. You think I can shimmy for you?"

He looked at the cast as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh. Right. I forgot."

He forgot.

"Well," he said, retracting his hand. "When you get that off then. Soon."

"Soon," I echoed.

"I'm trying here, Elie," he said, a hint of irritation creeping in. "I bought you a gift. I'm here. Stop being so cold."

"I'm tired, Jax. The pain meds make me sleepy."

He sighed, loud and dramatic. "Fine. Sleep. But fix your attitude. I just won a war for this family. A little gratitude wouldn't kill you."

He turned and walked out, leaving the expensive dress on the bed like a tip on a nightstand.

I waited until his footsteps faded down the hall.

I picked up the dress. The silk felt like water against my fingers.

I walked to the trash can and dropped it inside.

Then I pulled out my laptop.

*Confirm Booking.*

New York. Tuesday. 6:00 AM.

I wasn't waiting for the cast to come off. I was limping out of hell.