"Your kingdom is built on sand," I told her, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in my blood.

Lola’s eyes widened, the whites showing all around. The veins in her neck strained against her expensive skin, ruining the facade of elegance she tried so hard to maintain.

"Get her!" she shrieked.

Bella lunged, her fingers digging into my bicep. Another girl clamped a fist into my hair.

I tried to twist away, my self-defense training kicking in automatically—shift weight, drop center of gravity. But I was outnumbered. Bella drove a boot into the back of my knee, and my leg buckled.

I went down, hitting the hard marble floor with a bone-jarring thud that rattled my teeth.

"Hold her down!" Lola commanded.

I felt hands pressing my shoulders into the cold stone, pinning me like a specimen. My blazer tore with a sharp *rip*.

Lola stood over me, looking like a vengeful deity in white chiffon.

"You need to learn your place," she said, breathing hard, her chest heaving. "You think you can just walk in here and disrespect me? I am going to be the First Lady of this family."

She leaned down and slapped me again.

Left cheek. Right cheek.

My head rang like a struck bell. The humiliation was worse than the pain. I was Seraphina Vitiello. My father cut the tongues out of men who spoke to me with the wrong tone. And here I was, being beaten by a cocktail waitress in a lobby I technically owned.

"I’m going to scar that boring little face of yours," Lola hissed, her spittle landing on my cheek. "Maybe then Dante will stop pitying you."

I looked up at her. My lip was split. I could feel blood trickling down my chin, hot and metallic.

"If you touch me again," I whispered, my voice a cold razor, "you will pray for death."

Lola threw her head back and laughed. It was a sharp, manic sound.

"Did you hear that? The stapler is threatening me!"

She raised her foot, aiming her sharp stiletto heel at my hand.

Then she stopped.

Her eyes caught the glint of silver at my throat.

It was an old locket. Tarnished silver, engraved with a simple butterfly. It wasn't flashy. It didn't have diamonds.

But it was the only thing my mother had left me before she died in a car bomb meant for my father.

"What is this garbage?" Lola sneered.

She reached down and yanked the chain.

"No!" I screamed, struggling against the hands holding me down, thrashing violently. "Don't touch that!"

The chain snapped with a sickening *pop*.

Lola held the locket up to the light, dangling it like a dead insect.

"So cheap," she said. "Dante buys me diamonds. And you wear... tin?"

"Give it back," I choked out. The air felt too thin, my lungs burning. That locket held my mother's picture. It was a sacred relic.

"It’s ugly," Lola decided. "Just like you."

She dropped it on the floor.

Time seemed to slow down. I watched the silver heart hit the marble. It didn't break.

Then Lola lifted her foot.

She brought her heel down, hard, right in the center of the butterfly.

*Crunch.*

The sound of metal twisting and glass shattering was louder than any gunshot I had ever heard.

My heart stopped.

Lola ground her heel into the fragments, twisting back and forth, ensuring nothing remained but dust and scrap metal.

"Oops," she said, smiling down at me. "I guess I broke your toy. Now you have nothing."

I stopped struggling. The hands holding me felt distant. The pain in my face vanished.

A cold, dark void opened up in the center of my chest. It swallowed the love I had for Dante. It swallowed my patience. It swallowed the girl who wanted a normal life.

I looked at the crushed silver on the floor.

The Pact was over.

Omertà was broken.

War had begun.

My burner phone started buzzing inside my purse, which had been kicked a few feet away.

Lola flicked her wrist at Bella. "Get that."

Bella snatched the cheap black phone and handed it to her mistress.

Lola looked at the screen, her lip curling in disgust.

"Caller ID says 'Papa'," she mocked. "Aww. Is the little girl going to cry to her daddy?"

I lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. The cold from the marble was seeping into my bones, numbing the pain, grounding me.

"Answer it," I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Hollow. Dead.

Lola laughed. "You want me to talk to him? Fine. I’ll tell him to come pick up his trash."

She swiped the screen and hit the speaker button.

"Hello?" Lola screeched into the microphone. "Listen here, old man. Your daughter is a psycho stalker. You need to come get her before I have security throw her in the dumpster where she belongs."

Silence on the other end.

It wasn't a peaceful silence. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of a predator holding its breath before the strike.

Then, a sound.

*CRASH.*

It was the distinct, wet crunch of heavy crystal shattering against a wall.

"Who is this?"

The voice was deep, gravelly, and vibrated with a suppressed violence that made the air in the lobby drop ten degrees.

Lola didn't notice. She was too high on her own power trip.

"I’m the future Mrs. Moretti," she announced. "And you need to teach your daughter some manners. She’s embarrassing herself. Tell her to stay away from Dante, or I’ll make sure she never works in this city again."

"Is she alive?" the voice asked.

It was a simple question, devoid of inflection.

"Barely," Lola laughed. "I had to teach her a lesson. Touched her up a bit. Broke her ugly little necklace."

"You touched her," the voice repeated.

It wasn't a question anymore. It was a confirmation of a death sentence.

"Yeah, I slapped her. What are you going to do about it, grandpa? Sue me?"

"Put her on the phone," the voice commanded.

Lola rolled her eyes but held the phone down toward my face, like she was offering a treat to a dog.

"Daddy wants to say bye-bye."

I looked at the black plastic.

"Papa," I whispered.

"Seraphina," my father said. His voice cracked, just a fraction. "Did they take the necklace?"

"Yes," I said. "They crushed it."

A long exhale on the other end. It sounded like a dragon waking up.

"The pact is void," my father said. "Burn them."

Something sparked in my chest, melting the ice.

"Burn them all," I agreed.

"I am three minutes away," he said. "Stay down. The sky is about to fall."

The line went dead.

Lola scoffed and threw the phone onto the floor, smashing it next to the remains of my mother’s locket.

"Drama queen," she muttered. "Like father, like daughter."

I closed my eyes and listened.

Far off in the distance, over the hum of the city traffic, I heard a rhythmic thumping sound.

*Thwup. Thwup. Thwup.*

It was getting louder, a beating heart of steel closing in.

The distant hum of the city was drowned out by the aggressive purr of the motorcade.

Through the glass doors, four black Rolls Royces pulled up to the curb with military precision. The doors opened in unison.

Dante stepped out of the lead car.

I had to admit, he looked impeccable. He was wearing a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, tailored to hide his flaws and accentuate his power. His hair was slicked back. He looked every inch the Mafia Prince he pretended to be.

He didn't look like a man who was cheating. He looked like a conqueror surveying his new kingdom.

Bodyguards flanked him, shoving aside the few paparazzi who had gathered.

Lola let out a squeal of delight that pierced the air. She abandoned me on the floor and ran toward the doors.

"Dante! Baby!"

Dante caught her as she threw herself into his arms. He spun her around, laughing. It was a picture-perfect moment. The King and his Queen.

He kissed her, deep and showy, making sure the cameras caught the angle.

"There she is," Dante announced, his voice booming as he walked into the lobby, Lola hanging off his arm like an expensive bauble. "My Old Lady. The woman who tames the beast."

The staff, who had been watching me get beaten moments ago, exchanged nervous glances before breaking into applause.

"Congratulations, Mr. Moretti!"

"You look beautiful, Lola!"

Dante beamed, soaking in the adoration. He raised a hand, silencing them.

"Tonight is a celebration," he declared. "I’m authorizing a five-thousand-dollar bonus for every employee in the building. Drinks are on me!"

A raucous cheer went up. They loved him. He was generous. He was charming.

He was a fraud.

I slowly dragged myself up to a sitting position. My body ached with every breath. My lip was definitely swollen, throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

I began to pick up the pieces of the locket. One shard of silver. One bent hinge. A fragment of the photo—just my mother’s eye, staring up at me from the cold marble.

"Look at her," Lola sneered, pointing a finger at me. She was safe in Dante's arms now. "She’s still picking up trash."

Dante frowned. He followed her finger.

He saw a woman on the floor, hair disheveled, bleeding, surrounded by broken glass.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to place the inconvenience.

Then, recognition struck him like a physical blow.

His tan face drained of all color. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He dropped his arm from Lola’s waist as if she had suddenly caught fire.

"Seraphina?" he whispered.

The lobby went quiet again. The staff looked back and forth between the glowing couple and the broken woman on the floor.

I stood up.

I swayed slightly, but I locked my knees. I wiped the blood from my lip with the back of my hand and met his gaze.

"Hello, Dante," I said.

"What... what are you doing here?" he stammered. Panic was starting to seep through his composure. "You're supposed to be... I thought you were at home."

"I was," I said. "Then I saw the billboard."

Dante flinched.

"Look, Seraphina, I can explain," he started, taking a step toward me, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "It's just business. It's a strategy. You know how the families are."

"She attacked me!" Lola interjected, grabbing Dante’s arm again, her nails digging into his suit. "She came in here acting crazy! She tried to hurt me, Dante! Look at what she did!"

Lola had absolutely no injuries, but she wailed like a grieving widow.

Dante looked at Lola, then back at me. He saw the blood on my face. He saw the torn blazer.

He knew exactly what had happened.

And for a second, I saw the calculation in his eyes. He weighed me—the useful, boring secretary—against Lola, the trophy he wanted to show off.

He made his choice.

He straightened his spine and put on his mask of arrogance.

"Seraphina," he said, his voice cold. "You shouldn't have come here. You're drunk. You're embarrassing yourself."

I smiled.

It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a woman who had just realized she was holding the detonator.

"Am I?" I asked.

"Yes," Dante said dismissively. "Go home. We'll talk about your severance package in the morning."

The thumping noise outside was deafening now. The glass walls of the lobby began to vibrate violently.

Shadows fell over the plaza outside as a massive black military helicopter descended right onto the street, blocking traffic and blotting out the sun.

The side of the helicopter bore a crest. A golden lion holding a bleeding heart.

The Vitiello crest.

Dante turned to look. His knees actually knocked together.

"Dante," I said softly, my voice cutting through the roar of the rotors. "I don't think I need a severance package."

The doors of the lobby were blown open by the force of the landing.

My father walked in. He wasn't alone. He was flanked by ten soldiers carrying assault rifles at the ready.

But I only saw him.

Don Salvatore Vitiello stopped in the center of the room. He looked at Dante. He looked at Lola.

Then he looked at me. He saw the blood.

"Who touched her?" he asked.

His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a grave being dug.

"Do you know the penalty for striking a Vitiello?" he asked Dante.

Dante fell to his knees.