Elena Vitiello POV:
"News from Chicago. Luca and Matteo saved the Underboss's life in a gang shootout last night. They've regained their titles as Lieutenants."
My breath stopped. For one agonizing second, the air left my lungs. The memory of the dusty Chicago warehouse flashed behind my eyes—Luca holding a gun, the barrel shifting away from me and pointing toward Sofia. He had made his choice then.
Dante’s eyes narrowed. He caught the microscopic freeze in my posture. The cold annoyance in his dark eyes instantly morphed into a violent, suffocating possessiveness. He was a man who controlled everything. The mere thought that a ghost from my past could still affect my breathing ignited a murderous rage inside him.
I didn't let the silence drag. I lowered my eyes and reached for the edges of my silk robe. I pulled the fabric up, dragging it over my bare shoulders. I tied the belt tight around my waist. I wasn't the weak girl who cried over betrayals anymore. Covering my ruined skin was a physical barrier, sealing away the vulnerability I had just exposed to him.
The heavy silk completely hid the silver, jagged burn scar on my back. It was my brand. The permanent line dividing the victim I was from the woman I was becoming.
I lifted my chin. I looked at Dante, and a slow, hollow smile curved my lips. There was absolutely no warmth in it.
I stepped past him, walking out of the bathroom and toward the massive bedroom window overlooking the glittering New York skyline. The glass was cold against my fingertips.
"Trash is still trash, Dante," I said, my voice dropping to a freezing calm. "Even if it crawls out of the mud, it still stinks of the gutter."
The heavy, oppressive darkness in Dante’s eyes vanished. It was replaced by a sudden, intense flare of pure appreciation.
He didn't say a word. He casually tossed the black satellite phone onto the mattress. He closed the distance between us in three massive strides, backing me up until my spine hit the cold, hard tiles near the bathroom frame.
He boxed me in. His head dipped, his lips brushing against my earlobe. He bit down, hard enough to sting, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
"I love your ruthless heart, Elena," he murmured against my skin, the tension between us igniting into a roaring fire all over again.
***
Luca POV:
The water was scalding hot, but I couldn't feel it.
I stood under the showerhead in the underground locker room of the Chicago Outfit. Blood swirled around my boots, running down the drain in thick, dark ribbons. My jaw throbbed with a dull, unhealed ache. My knuckles were split open, raw and bleeding. This was the price. I had fought like a rabid dog, putting my life on the line for the Underboss just to claw my way out of the bottom.
Matteo sat on the wooden bench outside the stalls. He was sweating, his face pale as he rubbed the stump of his amputated leg. He was in agony, but his eyes were wide and manic.
I twisted the faucet off. I wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at my reflection. My face was bruised, my eyes wild and violent. I dried off and pushed the locker room door open.
Two brand-new, custom-tailored suits hung on the rack.
I pulled the expensive fabric over my shoulders. I adjusted the lapels, trying to summon the arrogance I used to carry. I was the Prince of Chicago again. I thought the expensive wool could cover the rotting, hollow feeling in my chest.
Matteo struggled to pull his trousers over his prosthetic. He looked up at me, grinning through the pain. "We did it, Luca. We have the rank. We can finally go to New York and bring her back."
I gripped the edge of the locker. My vision tunneled. "She’s just throwing a tantrum," I muttered, my obsession twisting my reality. "She just needs to see I've changed."
An hour later, our black sedan parked on Michigan Avenue. I walked into an old-money jewelry store. The clerk immediately brought out a tray of flawless pink diamonds.
"No," I snapped, ignoring them. I pointed to a basic, classic-cut diamond ring in the display case. It was the exact style I thought Elena had glanced at three years ago. I was still looking at her through the lens of the past, completely blind to the fact that she now held the master key to New York’s intelligence network.
I drained my newly reinstated salary advance to buy it. It was cheap for a Lieutenant, but I didn't care. I gripped the velvet box in my palm like a lifeline.
We drove straight to the Underboss’s estate.
The study smelled of heavy cigar smoke. The Underboss sat behind his leather desk, his dark eyes scrutinizing my bruised face.
"I want the diplomatic assignment," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I want to lead the delegation to New York to negotiate the new trade routes."
The Underboss took a slow drag of his cigar. He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, his eyes lingering on my broken jaw for two long seconds. Chicago needed to test New York’s boundaries, and he knew Matteo and I were desperate enough to be the perfect sacrificial lambs.
He picked up a gold pen. He signed the transit documents with a sharp scratch.
He tossed the papers across the desk. He looked at me with a chilling, quiet pity—the kind of look you give a dead man walking.
I didn't understand the look. I snatched the papers with both hands. My eyes burned with a sick, fanatic devotion.
"Elena, wait for me. I will bring you home."
