Elena Vitiello POV:
The morning sun spilled across the Persian rugs in the grand foyer of the Long Island estate, but the warmth couldn't penetrate the tension in the room.
I had brought Mia home.
She stood barefoot in the center of the massive hall, wearing an oversized t-shirt. She looked like a feral cat dropped into a palace, her eyes darting wildly, tracking every shadow and every movement of the guards.
Dr. Thomas knelt a few feet away, holding an open medical kit. "Mia, I just need to clean the whip marks on your back to prevent infection."
He reached a hand out. Mia hissed, lunging forward and sinking her teeth directly into the doctor’s wrist. Dr. Thomas grunted in pain, pulling back as Mia scrambled behind a heavy velvet sofa, breathing heavily.
Dante, standing by the sweeping staircase, lost his patience. His eyes went cold. He reached inside his jacket, his hand wrapping around the grip of his pistol. "I'll put a bullet in her leg to calm her down."
"Dante, stop!" I snapped, stepping between him and the sofa.
I didn't try to coax her out with sweet words. Words meant nothing to someone who had been tortured. I walked over to a decorative table, picked up a tactical combat knife, and checked that the safety sheath was off.
I slid the knife across the slick marble floor. It stopped right at the edge of the sofa.
"Take it," I said calmly. "If you feel threatened, you use it."
Mia stared at the blade. Slowly, a trembling, bruised hand reached out and grabbed the hilt. The moment her fingers curled around the weapon, the wild panic in her eyes receded, replaced by a guarded focus.
She stood up, holding the knife defensively, and gave Dr. Thomas a stiff nod. She allowed him to clean her wounds, though she never took her eyes off Dante.
An hour later, I found Dante in his study. He was pacing behind his mahogany desk, a lit cigar clamped between his teeth.
"She has Sofia's face, Elena," Dante growled, turning to me. "She's a ghost. A liability. I don't want her in this house."
I walked over to him, wrapping my arms around the thick muscles of his neck. "She is not Sofia. Sofia used her body and her tears to manipulate men. I'm going to teach Mia how to hold a gun. I'm going to teach her to never need a man to survive."
Dante looked down into my eyes. He saw the unyielding resolve there, the need to save the girl who was a mirror of my own past. He let out a heavy sigh, his hands settling on my hips.
"Fine. But she gets the highest level of background checks. And she is monitored twenty-four-seven."
A week passed. I hired the best trauma therapists and tutors, giving Mia the foundation she needed to exist in this world. But her true awakening didn't happen in a classroom.
It was past midnight. I was awake, watching the estate's internal security feeds on my tablet. I saw Mia slip out of her room, unable to sleep, wandering the dark halls until she found the unlocked heavy steel door leading to the underground shooting range.
I put on my robe and followed her.
When I stepped into the soundproofed bunker, the smell of cordite was heavy in the air. Mia was standing at the firing line. She had picked up a heavy Desert Eagle from the armory table. Her thin arms were trembling under its weight, but her stance—feet shoulder-width apart, shoulders squared—was terrifyingly natural.
I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms.
Mia heard my movement. She spun around, her eyes wide, and leveled the massive gun directly at my chest. She looked like a cornered animal ready to kill.
I didn't flinch. I walked slowly, deliberately, straight toward the barrel of the gun. I reached out and pressed my index finger against the cold metal muzzle, pushing it down.
"The safety is still on," I said, a faint smile on my lips.
Mia’s face flushed scarlet. She dropped the gun onto the table, her lower lip trembling. She bit down on it hard, fighting back tears, expecting to be beaten or thrown out onto the street.
I opened a drawer, pulled out a fresh magazine, and slammed it into the grip of the Desert Eagle. I racked the slide, chambering a heavy round, and pressed the gun back into her hands.
I stepped behind her, wrapping my hands over her trembling ones.
"Breathe," I commanded, my voice echoing in the concrete room. "Align the front sight with the notch. Squeeze, don't pull."
Mia closed her eyes, took a breath, and squeezed the trigger.
The recoil was massive, throwing her back a step. The boom rattled her teeth. But when she opened her eyes and looked at the digital monitor, a green light flashed.
Dead center. Bullseye.
Mia stared at the screen. The fear melted from her face, replaced by a sudden, consuming fire. Power.
I stepped back. "Tears and a pretty face will get you killed in New York. Only lead and steel will keep you breathing."
Mia dropped to her knees. She grabbed the hem of my silk robe and pressed her lips to the fabric, the oldest Mafia sign of absolute fealty.
I grabbed her shoulders and hauled her to her feet. "I don't need a slave. I need a blade. Are you ready for hell?"
Mia nodded, her eyes hardening into ice.
For the next month, I broke her down and rebuilt her. I taught her hand-to-hand combat, knife fighting, and marksmanship. She trained until her knuckles bled and she couldn't stand, and she never uttered a single complaint. Dante watched from the observation deck, his doubts slowly fading into impressed amusement.
On her final day of basic training, I walked into the armory. I unstrapped the ivory-handled micro-pistol from my thigh and handed it to her.
Mia took the weapon, sliding it into her own thigh holster. She stood tall, wearing a tailored black suit, her eyes sharp and deadly.
"My life belongs to the Queen."
