Elena Vitiello POV:
My father let out a cold snort. He slid the gold-plated Desert Eagle back into the shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket, his eyes flat and completely devoid of pity.
Two massive cartel enforcers stepped forward immediately. They grabbed Luca by his soaking wet collar, their thick fingers digging into the ruined fabric.
Luca tried to struggle. His knees hit the floor, grinding directly into the shattered glass from the broken vases. A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat as the shards sliced through his trousers and into his flesh.
The enforcers did not stop. They dragged him backward. The tips of his shoes scraped across the pristine white tiles, leaving two long, thick smears of crimson blood in his wake.
Matteo shook violently. He scrambled on his hands and knees, trying to follow his brother, but another enforcer stepped up and delivered a brutal kick directly to his stomach. Matteo collapsed, gasping for air, clutching his abdomen.
By the door, Sofia shrieked. She dug her fingernails into the wooden doorframe, refusing to leave. A New York shadow stepped up. He wore black leather gloves. He grabbed her wrist and peeled her fingers back one by one, bending them until they nearly snapped, then threw her into the hallway.
Just as Luca was about to be dragged through the threshold, a sudden burst of adrenaline hit him. He twisted violently, ripping his collar out of the enforcer's grip.
He lunged toward the medical cart that had been knocked near the door during the chaos. His bloody hand closed around the handle of a surgical scalpel.
Ten years ago, Luca had thrown himself in front of an assassin for me. He had cut his hand on a broken bottle, and I, a foolish little girl, had cried by his bedside all night. He thought I was still that girl. He thought physical pain would flip a switch in my brain and make me forgive him.
Every gun in the room was instantly drawn and aimed directly at his skull.
I raised my uninjured left hand. The guns remained steady, but the men paused. I looked at Luca. I looked at him the way one looks at a dead rat on the side of the road.
Luca did not hesitate. He dragged the sharp edge of the scalpel across his left palm. The flesh parted instantly. Dark red blood welled up and spilled over his wrist.
Matteo saw this. Weeping hysterically, he snatched the scalpel from his brother's hand and dragged it across his own palm, cutting so deep the white of the bone flashed under the fluorescent lights.
Luca stumbled forward. He slammed his bleeding hand onto the stainless steel railing of my hospital bed.
I am paying her debt, he screamed, his voice hoarse and broken. I am paying it for Sofia.
The blood slid off the metal railing. It dripped onto my clean white bedsheets. The red spots bloomed like ugly flowers.
I stared at the blood. My breathing did not change. My eyelashes did not even flutter. The fire that had burned away my skin had also burned away the pathetic, soft parts of my soul.
You aren't paying back anything, I said. My voice was raspy, cutting through his screams with absolute zero temperature. You are bleeding because you broke a contract. Not out of loyalty.
The last spark of hope in Luca's eyes extinguished. His pupils dilated in pure, unadulterated horror as the reality of my words crushed his final delusion.
I reached out and slammed my hand onto the red panic button on the wall.
A piercing alarm blared through the hallway, drowning out Luca's desperate, sobbing excuses.
The New York guard stepped up behind him. He raised his pistol and brought the heavy metal grip down on the back of Luca's skull. The sickening crack of bone echoed over the alarm. Luca's eyes rolled back, and he went completely limp.
The enforcers grabbed them like heavy bags of garbage. They dragged the unconscious Luca, the weeping Matteo, and the screaming Sofia out the door.
The heavy, soundproof door slammed shut. The hallway noises vanished instantly.
My father stood by the bed. He cleared his throat. He tried to soften his voice, telling me to rest, but I could see the cold calculation in his eyes. He was already figuring out how to leverage my survival to appease New York.
I turned my head away from him. I closed my eyes. I refused to speak another word.
He stood there awkwardly for a long moment. Finally, he turned on his heel, ordered two guards to watch the door, and walked out.
I was alone. The adrenaline faded. The agonizing, white-hot pain of the burns crashed over me like a tsunami. Cold sweat soaked through my hospital gown. My vision blurred.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. I forced my eyes open. I looked at the bedside drawer.
My mother had cried in her room for years, waiting for someone to save her. I would not be my mother.
I reached out with my trembling left hand. I pulled the drawer open. I took out the heavy black satellite phone.
I dialed the single number saved in the memory. The encrypted line clicked. A deep, steady breathing sounded on the other end.
"I'm ready to go to New York."
