Elena Vitiello POV:
"Let's go to hell together."
Sofia’s twisted words echoed in my mind as the heavy, armored doors of the Rolls Royce locked into place with a solid *thud*.
The convoy of three black, bulletproof SUVs rolled out of the Outfit Manor gates, heading straight for Manhattan.
I sat in the back of the Rolls Royce, my legs crossed. I wore a long, tailored black wool coat over my suit. The heated leather seats did nothing to warm the cold, calculated anticipation spreading through my chest.
Thirty minutes later, the convoy approached the grand plaza of Columbia University.
The sky was a bruised, heavy grey. A freezing, biting wind whipped through the streets, carrying the threat of sleet.
Through the dark, tinted, bomb-resistant glass of my window, I saw them.
Luca and Matteo.
They were standing in the dead center of the open stone plaza. They looked like common vagrants.
Luca was clutching his side, clearly agonizing over the fractured ribs my guards had given him days ago. His designer clothes were filthy, torn, and stained with street grime.
Matteo leaned heavily on a cheap, wooden crutch. His left leg ended in a stump below the knee. His prosthetic was gone, shattered by my security detail. He was shivering violently in the wind.
A small delivery truck from a local florist was parked haphazardly by the curb. The driver was tossing out massive bundles of red roses.
I watched Luca dig into his dirty pockets. He pulled out a few crumpled, damp dollar bills—likely their last remaining cash—and shoved them into the driver's hand.
Matteo hobbled forward. With painful, agonizing slowness, he bent down and began spreading the red roses across the cold, grey paving stones.
They were arranging the thousands of flowers into a gigantic, pathetic heart shape.
Luca knelt in the center of the flowers. He pulled out a lighter and began lighting cheap, windproof candles, trying to create a pathetic illusion of romance.
A crowd of college students had already gathered. They pointed, whispered, and held up their phones, live-streaming the humiliating spectacle. They recognized the former princes of the Chicago syndicate, now reduced to freezing beggars.
Luca tried to look up with a soulful, tragic expression. But his jaw was still swollen and bruised from being shattered, making him look grotesque.
He actually believed this would work. He believed that if he groveled, if he performed this grand, dramatic gesture, I would revert to the obedient, desperate girl who used to crave his scraps of affection.
He didn't realize that girl died in a Chicago basement.
My convoy roared into the plaza. The massive engines drowned out the wind.
The three vehicles drove right onto the pedestrian stones, stopping aggressively at the edge of the rose heart.
Ten heavily armed Outfit guards poured out of the front and rear SUVs. They physically shoved the crowd of students back, forming a tight, impenetrable perimeter around my Rolls Royce.
Luca saw the convoy. A manic gleam of hope ignited in his bloodshot eyes.
He dropped to his knees right in the middle of the wet roses.
"Elena!" Luca screamed. His voice was hoarse, ragged, and utterly pathetic. "Elena, please!"
Inside the silent, soundproof cabin of the Rolls Royce, I felt my stomach turn.
I looked at the red roses. All I could see was the memory of the cheap, insulting diamond ring he had thrown at me years ago.
My lead guard tapped the intercom button. "Queen. Do you want us to clear this trash?"
I stared through the glass at Luca’s kneeling form. A dark, cruel smirk touched my lips.
"No," I replied smoothly. "That is too easy."
I picked up my encrypted phone. I dialed a direct line to the New York municipal sanitation director—a man whose gambling debts Dante owned.
"This is Elena Moretti," I said. "Send a heavy-duty street sweeper to the Columbia University main plaza. Immediately."
I hung up.
I smoothed the lapels of my coat. I pulled a pair of black leather gloves from my pocket and slid them onto my hands, adjusting the fit over my fingers.
My guard opened the heavy car door.
The freezing wind instantly rushed into the cabin.
I stepped out onto the concrete. My high heels clicked against the stone.
Luca saw me. He tried to crawl forward on his knees, his hands crushing the roses beneath him.
I stood at the top of the stone steps, looking down at him. I looked at him exactly the way one looks at a dead rat rotting in a sewer.
"You dirtied my carpet."
