Matteo Vitiello POV:
"New York... I must go to New York."
The words tasted like copper and mud on my bleeding tongue. I pushed Luca off my chest and dragged my body forward. My right leg ended in a mangled, bleeding stump. The rough asphalt tore through my soaked pants, scraping the raw flesh beneath, but I didn't stop.
I crawled like a crushed worm through the freezing Chicago rain.
The icy downpour battered my swollen, ruined face. I bit down on my torn lip to keep from passing out from the agony. Every inch of my body screamed. I used to be a prince of the underworld. Now, I was less than the rats that scurried past my bleeding hands. This was my punishment.
Behind me, Luca huddled against the brick wall, shivering violently and letting out muffled, wet whimpers.
I kept my eyes locked on the massive green dumpster at the end of the alley. It reeked of sour milk, rotting meat, and wet cardboard. I dragged myself through the puddles until my hands hit the rusted metal base.
I gritted my teeth, grabbed the slippery rim, and pulled my broken body upward. My muscles tore. My ribs ground together.
I threw the upper half of my body over the edge and plunged my hands into the garbage. Maggots writhed against my skin. I dug frantically through the rotting sludge. A jagged piece of broken glass sliced deep into my palm. My blood mixed with the foul gray water, but I didn't care.
My fingers finally brushed against hard, cheap plastic.
I pulled the prosthetic leg out of the filth. I hugged it tightly to my chest, burying my face in the garbage-soaked plastic. It was my only lifeline. I needed it to stand. I needed it to walk. I needed it to go to New York and see the woman I had destroyed.
I shoved the plastic socket over my bleeding stump. A fresh wave of agony shot up my spine. I let out a low, guttural grunt, tightening the cheap straps until they cut into my skin.
I grabbed the brick wall and forced myself to stand. My vision swam with black spots. I limped back to Luca, grabbed his collar, and hauled him up from the mud. I turned my head, staring blindly into the storm, looking toward the East Coast.
***
Elena Moretti POV:
The air inside the top-floor boardroom of the New York Outfit headquarters was thick and suffocating.
I sat near the head of the massive mahogany table. The room was a fortress of glass and steel, a stark contrast to the rain-soaked hell I had left behind in Chicago. I wore a tailored black suit, my posture perfectly straight. I was in control.
Dante sat at the head of the table beside me. He leaned back in his leather chair, his dark eyes cold and unreadable. He casually flipped a solid gold lighter open and shut. *Clack. Clack.* The sound echoed over the nervous voices of the men in the room.
A cartel boss from the South American shipping line was standing, waving his hands, complaining loudly about the new profit margins.
I frowned. The heavy stench of the cartel boss's imported cigar drifted across the table. My stomach lurched violently. A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck.
I raised my right hand. I tapped my manicured fingernails twice against the polished wood.
The loud complaints died instantly. The room fell into a terrified, dead silence. Every mafia boss at the table lowered their eyes, staring at their hands.
I opened my mouth to speak, to put the cartel boss in his place.
Before the words could leave my throat, the room violently tilted. A massive wave of dizziness hit me. The edges of my vision turned black. I couldn't breathe. My body went entirely limp, sliding sideways out of the heavy leather chair.
Dante's head snapped toward me. His pupils dilated in pure horror.
He kicked his heavy chair backward. It crashed to the floor. Before my head could strike the sharp corner of the mahogany table, Dante's strong arms caught me. He pulled me flush against his chest.
"Elena!" Dante roared. The sound was deafening, a raw, primal sound of terror that shook the bulletproof glass.
He glared at the men at the table. "Get out! Get the fucking doctor right now!"
The mafia bosses scrambled over each other, practically tearing the boardroom doors off the hinges to escape his wrath. Sirens began to blare in the hallway outside. The entire building went into immediate lockdown.
Julian, the private physician, sprinted into the boardroom clutching his medical bag.
Dante drew his gun with his free hand and pressed the barrel directly against the center of Julian's forehead. Dante's eyes were bloodshot, his chest heaving. "If she dies, I will burn this entire hospital to the ground with you inside it."
Julian didn't flinch. He was used to Dante's violent obsession. He gently pushed the hot barrel of the gun away. "Let me do my job, Dante."
Julian quickly drew a vial of my blood and ran a rapid diagnostic test on his portable kit. Dante paced like a caged predator, his hands shaking.
Ten minutes later, Julian looked at the digital readout. A warm smile broke across his face.
He turned to Dante, who looked ready to commit murder.
"She is perfectly healthy, Dante," Julian said softly. "She's pregnant. Six weeks."
The heavy gun slipped from Dante's fingers. It hit the floor with a loud clatter. The most ruthless tyrant in the New York underworld froze. Tears instantly welled in his cold blue eyes.
Dante dropped to his knees beside my chair. His large, trembling hands reached out, gently taking my hand. He pressed his lips against my knuckles, his broad shoulders shaking.
"My queen, you have given me the whole world."
