Seraphina Vitiello POV
The apartment was small, a shoebox that barely contained a bed, but it overlooked Bondi Beach.
If I craned my neck, I could see the ocean.
It was blue. So incredibly, impossibly blue.
I signed the lease with a shaking hand, using the alias I had set up months ago. The landlord didn't ask questions; he just wanted the cash deposit.
I gave it to him, watching my physical liquidity vanish in seconds.
I was tired. My body ached from the flight and the old injuries, a dull throb deep in my bones. Even with the lingering pain in my leg, the sense of freedom was exhilarating.
But more than that, I was hungry.
Not the hollow hunger of being denied food as punishment, which I knew well.
This was a real, gnawing hunger.
I walked down the street. The air smelled of salt and sunscreen. People were laughing, walking dogs, holding hands.
No one was looking over their shoulder. No one expected a bullet in the back.
I found a steakhouse on the corner. It radiated an upscale warmth, the kind of place that smelled of rich jus and old money.
In Chicago, I was never allowed to order steak.
Isabella always got the filet mignon. I got the side salad.
*Spares don't need red meat,* my mother used to say, her voice dripping with disdain. *It makes them aggressive.*
I walked in and sat at a table by the window.
I ordered the ribeye. Rare.
When it arrived, I stared at it. It was beautiful, a seared slab of rebellion.
I cut a piece and put it in my mouth. It tasted like iron and freedom.
I ate until I was full, savoring every forbidden bite.
Finally, I signaled for the check.
The waiter brought the terminal.
I slid my black card into the slot. It was a risk—the card was linked to my personal trust, the one thing my grandmother had left me. But I had no cash left.
The machine beeped.
Declined.
I frowned. "Try it again," I said.
The waiter looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight.
He tried it again.
Declined.
My stomach dropped. My father.
He must have found out I didn't get on the plane to London. He had frozen the assets. He couldn't find me, not yet, but he could starve me.
I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, a distinct, burning brand of humiliation.
I checked my wallet, fingers trembling. I had used most of my cash for the apartment deposit. I didn't have enough for the steak.
"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I think there is a mistake with the bank."
The waiter's expression hardened.
"Do you have another card, miss?"
"No," I whispered.
People were starting to look. The shame was a hot, heavy blanket suffocating me.
I was the daughter of a Don. I was wearing a hoodie, and I couldn't pay for dinner.
"I'll call the manager," the waiter said.
"Wait."
The voice came from behind me, smooth and commanding.
I turned.
Luca was standing there.
The man from the plane. He was wearing a linen shirt with sunglasses tucked into his collar, looking effortlessly casual.
He held out a sleek black card.
"Put it on mine," he said.
The waiter's attitude changed instantly. "Of course, sir."
Luca looked at me, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes.
"Fancy meeting you here, Sarah."
I couldn't speak. I was mortified.
He sat down opposite me, uninvited but not unwelcome.
"Don't look so scared," he said. "I'm not a bounty hunter."
"How did you know?" I asked.
He pointed to my hands.
"You're gripping the table like you expect it to bite you. And your card just got declined. It's a classic runaway story."
I looked down at my white-knuckled grip.
"Why did you pay?" I asked.
He shrugged, leaning back.
"Because you looked like you needed a win. And the ribeye here is overpriced anyway."
He smiled. It was disarming.
He didn't know who I was. He didn't know about the bodies in the basement or the scars on my back. He just saw a girl who was broke and hungry.
"I'm a lawyer," he said. "I fix problems for a living. Consider this pro bono."
I looked at him.
He represented the civilian world. A world where problems were solved with credit cards and laws, not bullets and knives.
"Thank you," I said. "Again."
"Don't mention it," he said. "But next time, maybe order the salad until your assets unfreeze."
I laughed.
It was a rusty, foreign sound, scraping against my throat.
I hadn't laughed in years.
It felt good.
