Seraphina Vitiello POV

The Uber idled before the massive iron gates.

It was the morning of the wedding, and the air hummed with frantic energy.

Delivery trucks were lining up to gain entry. Flowers. Catering. The architects of a fairy tale I was about to ruin.

I got out of the car.

I walked to the guard booth, my spine stiff against the lingering pain in my body.

"Call Dante," I said.

The guard hesitated, his gaze flickering over me, then picked up the phone.

A minute later, Dante walked down the driveway.

He looked wrecked. There were dark, bruised circles under his eyes, like he hadn't slept in days.

He saw me and scowled.

"You're supposed to be on a plane to London," he said.

His voice was rough, a scrape of gravel.

"I missed my flight," I lied.

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure exhaustion.

"Jesus, Seraphina. Do you ever stop being a burden? I don't have time for this. I have to get married in four hours."

"I know," I said.

I held out the white box.

"I just wanted to give you this."

He looked at it suspiciously, making no move to touch it.

"What is it?"

"A wedding gift," I said, forcing the title past my lips. "For my brother-in-law."

He didn't take it.

Marco, his underboss, stepped forward and took the box from my hand.

"Check it for bombs," Dante muttered.

I almost smiled.

It *is* a bomb, Dante, I thought. Just not the kind that explodes. It’s the kind that leaves nothing behind.

"I'm not going to London," I said softly.

He looked at me then. Really looked at me, his eyes searching mine for the game I was playing.

"What?"

"I'm going away," I said. "Somewhere you will never find me."

"Good," he said.

The word hung in the air between us.

Cold. Absolving. Final.

He turned his back on me.

He walked back up the driveway, moving towards the house where my sister was waiting to marry him.

He walked towards the lie he had chosen.

I watched him go until he was just a blur against the manicured landscape.

"Goodbye, Dante," I whispered.

I got back into the Uber.

"Airport," I told the driver.

As we merged onto the highway, I rolled down the window.

I took the SIM card out of my phone.

With a sharp *snap*, I broke it in half.

I threw it out the window.

I watched it bounce on the asphalt and disappear into the rush of traffic.

The wind whipped my hair across my face.

I took a deep breath.

It hurt my bruised ribs, but the air tasted different.

It didn't taste like blood or expensive cologne or fear.

It tasted like nothing.

And nothing was exactly what I wanted to be.

The girl who loved Dante Moretti died in a basement in Chicago.

The woman who landed in Sydney would be someone else entirely.

I closed my eyes and let the distance swallow me whole.

Seraphina Vitiello POV

The plane plummeted fifty feet in a single second.

My stomach lurched into my throat, a violent upheaval that tasted of bile.

The cabin lights flickered and died for a terrifying heartbeat.

Someone in the row behind me screamed.

I didn't scream.

I gripped the armrests until my knuckles turned bone white, my fingernails digging into the leather. My breathing was shallow, ragged gasps, each one sending a fresh jolt of pain through my still-healing ribs and the ache in my re-injured leg. I had taken extra pain medication before boarding, but the turbulence ripped through the dulling fog.

I wasn't on a plane anymore.

I was back in the SUV.

I was upside down.

I smelled the acrid stench of leaking gasoline.

I saw the fire eating the metal, curling around the frame like a hungry beast.

I saw Dante sprinting past my window without a single backward glance.

The plane shook again, violently this time, rattling my teeth.

My vision blurred.

Black spots danced at the edges of my sight, threatening to pull me under.

I couldn't breathe.

My ribs, the ones that were still healing, felt like a cage shrinking around my lungs, squeezing the life out of me.

A hand touched my arm.

I flinched.

I expected a blow.

I expected Dante's rough grip or my father's heavy, punishing hand.

But the touch was gentle.

Warm.

Solid.

I looked up.

The man in the seat next to me was watching me.

He had dark hair and eyes the color of aged whiskey.

He wasn't looking at me like I was a spare part or a nuisance to be dealt with.

He was looking at me like I was a person in distress.

"Breathe," he said softly.

His voice was deep, a rumble in his chest, but it lacked the sharp edge of command I was used to.

I tried to inhale.

The air in the cabin was stale.

It smelled of recycled oxygen and collective fear.

"Here," he said.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a blanket.

It was cashmere. Charcoal grey and impossibly soft.

He draped it over my shaking shoulders.

It smelled like sandalwood and expensive soap.

It didn't smell like blood.

It didn't smell like gunpowder.

"Focus on the fabric," he said, his tone low and grounding. "Feel how soft it is. You are safe."

I buried my nose in the blanket.

I focused on the sandalwood.

I counted the threads in my mind.

One. Two. Three.

The plane stabilized.

The pilot came over the intercom, his voice crackling as he apologized for the turbulence.

My heart rate began to slow, the thunder in my ears fading to a dull thrum.

I looked at the man.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He smiled.

It was a genuine smile. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners.

"I'm Luca," he said.

I hesitated.

Seraphina Vitiello was dead. She died in the wreckage in Chicago.

"I am... Sarah," I lied.

"Nice to meet you, Sarah," Luca said. "First time flying?"

"No," I said. "Just the first time escaping."

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

He didn't pry.

He just nodded, as if escaping was the most natural thing in the world.

We landed in Sydney fourteen hours later.

The sun was blinding.

It wasn't the grey, oppressive light of Chicago.

It was gold. It was alive.

I walked through customs with my heart in my throat. Every step was a careful calculation, my leg protesting the journey, but my resolve hardened with each unchallenged moment.

I expected a hand on my shoulder.

I expected Marco or Dante to drag me back to the basement, to the darkness.

But no one stopped me.

The stamp in my passport hit the paper with a dull, final thud.

"Welcome to Australia," the officer said.

I walked out into the arrivals hall, my legs trembling.

I found a taxi rank.

The driver was an older man with faded tattoos on his forearms.

"Where to, love?" he asked.

I looked at the skyline.

"Anywhere," I said. "Just drive."

He chuckled, a gravelly sound.

"Running from something or running to something?"

"Both," I said.

He put the car in gear.

"Well, you came to the right place," he said, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Sydney is a city of second chances. Even for old convicts like me."

I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window.

A convict and a mafia princess.

We were both criminals in our own way.

I watched the city blur past.

For the first time in my life, the road ahead wasn't paved with someone else's expectations.

It was just a road.

Seraphina Vitiello POV

The apartment was small, a shoebox that barely contained a bed, but it overlooked Bondi Beach.

If I craned my neck, I could see the ocean.

It was blue. So incredibly, impossibly blue.

I signed the lease with a shaking hand, using the alias I had set up months ago. The landlord didn't ask questions; he just wanted the cash deposit.

I gave it to him, watching my physical liquidity vanish in seconds.

I was tired. My body ached from the flight and the old injuries, a dull throb deep in my bones. Even with the lingering pain in my leg, the sense of freedom was exhilarating.

But more than that, I was hungry.

Not the hollow hunger of being denied food as punishment, which I knew well.

This was a real, gnawing hunger.

I walked down the street. The air smelled of salt and sunscreen. People were laughing, walking dogs, holding hands.

No one was looking over their shoulder. No one expected a bullet in the back.

I found a steakhouse on the corner. It radiated an upscale warmth, the kind of place that smelled of rich jus and old money.

In Chicago, I was never allowed to order steak.

Isabella always got the filet mignon. I got the side salad.

*Spares don't need red meat,* my mother used to say, her voice dripping with disdain. *It makes them aggressive.*

I walked in and sat at a table by the window.

I ordered the ribeye. Rare.

When it arrived, I stared at it. It was beautiful, a seared slab of rebellion.

I cut a piece and put it in my mouth. It tasted like iron and freedom.

I ate until I was full, savoring every forbidden bite.

Finally, I signaled for the check.

The waiter brought the terminal.

I slid my black card into the slot. It was a risk—the card was linked to my personal trust, the one thing my grandmother had left me. But I had no cash left.

The machine beeped.

Declined.

I frowned. "Try it again," I said.

The waiter looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight.

He tried it again.

Declined.

My stomach dropped. My father.

He must have found out I didn't get on the plane to London. He had frozen the assets. He couldn't find me, not yet, but he could starve me.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, a distinct, burning brand of humiliation.

I checked my wallet, fingers trembling. I had used most of my cash for the apartment deposit. I didn't have enough for the steak.

"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I think there is a mistake with the bank."

The waiter's expression hardened.

"Do you have another card, miss?"

"No," I whispered.

People were starting to look. The shame was a hot, heavy blanket suffocating me.

I was the daughter of a Don. I was wearing a hoodie, and I couldn't pay for dinner.

"I'll call the manager," the waiter said.

"Wait."

The voice came from behind me, smooth and commanding.

I turned.

Luca was standing there.

The man from the plane. He was wearing a linen shirt with sunglasses tucked into his collar, looking effortlessly casual.

He held out a sleek black card.

"Put it on mine," he said.

The waiter's attitude changed instantly. "Of course, sir."

Luca looked at me, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes.

"Fancy meeting you here, Sarah."

I couldn't speak. I was mortified.

He sat down opposite me, uninvited but not unwelcome.

"Don't look so scared," he said. "I'm not a bounty hunter."

"How did you know?" I asked.

He pointed to my hands.

"You're gripping the table like you expect it to bite you. And your card just got declined. It's a classic runaway story."

I looked down at my white-knuckled grip.

"Why did you pay?" I asked.

He shrugged, leaning back.

"Because you looked like you needed a win. And the ribeye here is overpriced anyway."

He smiled. It was disarming.

He didn't know who I was. He didn't know about the bodies in the basement or the scars on my back. He just saw a girl who was broke and hungry.

"I'm a lawyer," he said. "I fix problems for a living. Consider this pro bono."

I looked at him.

He represented the civilian world. A world where problems were solved with credit cards and laws, not bullets and knives.

"Thank you," I said. "Again."

"Don't mention it," he said. "But next time, maybe order the salad until your assets unfreeze."

I laughed.

It was a rusty, foreign sound, scraping against my throat.

I hadn't laughed in years.

It felt good.