The metallic clink of the doctor unlatching his leather bag sounded like a death knell in the quiet penthouse. If he cut away my ruined clothes, Donatella would see the roadmap of violence carved into my flesh—the bullet holes from the Chicago docks, the jagged knife scar from a Russian rat. I needed to reveal them on my terms, as a weapon, not as a specimen on a mattress.
I forced my eyes open and pushed myself up. Fire licked up my shattered arms, and the room spun violently, but I swallowed the groan rising in my throat.
"Wait," I rasped, my voice raw.
Donatella raised a perfectly arched brow. The doctor froze, a pair of trauma shears in his hand.
"Thank you, Donna Romano," I breathed, making sure my tone conveyed respect but absolute urgency. "But there is no time for this. If I stay here, the proof dies."
"Explain," Donatella commanded, stepping closer to the bed.
"My brother," I lied smoothly, leaning into the ghost of Angelo. "He kept a ledger. Every illicit transaction, every bribe Marco took, and a confession letter from a loyal Soldier who was ordered to betray him. It's hidden in his secret apartment in Greenwich Village. Marco and Sofia will realize I'm missing soon. They will scrub that place clean. I need to get there tonight, before they erase the last piece of him."
Donatella’s dark eyes searched mine. She wasn't just looking at a battered, hysterical girl anymore; she was looking at a player on the board. A slow, approving smirk touched her lips.
*"Va bene."* (All right.) She waved the doctor away with a flick of her wrist. "Take my armored Cadillac. Two of my best Soldiers will escort you. Do not make me regret this investment, little bird."
The ride downtown was a blur of neon bleeding through bulletproof glass. The Cadillac smelled of rich leather and Donatella’s heavy perfume—a borrowed fortress. Gia sat beside me, her hands trembling as she clutched my uninjured elbow. The heavy silence of the car was a stark contrast to the war raging in my head.
We pulled up to the pre-war building in Greenwich Village. My sanctuary. The only place where I could take off the mask of the Falcone princess and breathe as the Enforcer I truly was. A black mourning wreath hung on the heavy iron doors, honoring the "tragic death of war hero Angelo Falcone." The irony tasted like ash in my mouth.
I pushed through the doors, Gia trailing close behind, flanked by the two massive Romano Soldiers. The lobby smelled of floor wax and old dust.
"Hold it right there," a voice barked.
It was Thomas, the doorman. The same man who used to practically bow when I walked in wearing my tailored men's suits, slipping him hundred-dollar bills. Now, he looked at my bloodied, disheveled state with a mixture of fear and utter disdain.
"I need to go up to the penthouse," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the agony radiating from my bones.
Thomas stepped into my path, crossing his arms. "No one goes up. Falcone family orders."
"I am a Falcone," I hissed, stepping closer.
He scoffed, his eyes raking over my ruined dress. "Mr. Marco gave strict instructions. No crazies, no scammers looking for a handout. Mr. Angelo's *real* sister, Miss Sofia, is already upstairs sorting through her poor brother's belongings. She’s not to be disturbed."
The words hit me harder than the poison Marco had slipped into my drink. *Real sister.*
Sofia wasn't just stealing my title in the family. She was physically occupying my grave. She was inside my walls, touching my weapons, breathing my air. The realization settled over me like a suffocating shroud. I was locked out of my own life, standing on the street as a nameless ghost while a usurper picked my bones clean.
