Seraphina Vitiello POV
My phone screen was the only beacon of light in the suffocating darkness of the alley behind the Sapphire Club.
My fingers were tacky with blood—a grim mixture of mine and Dante’s—but I didn't wipe them clean.
I navigated to the browser that didn't exist on standard interfaces.
With trembling hands, I typed in the address for the Shadow Market.
I needed a miracle. And in Chicago, miracles cost more than prayers.
They cost favors.
I posted the request.
Urgent restoration. Antique jade. Shattered. Need it tonight. Price is irrelevant.
I attached a photo of the jagged green shards resting in my bloody palm.
I leaned against the rough brick wall, the damp cold seeping through my thin turtleneck.
I expected a wait time of hours.
I expected a negotiation.
The phone buzzed ten seconds later.
Accepted.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
A location pin dropped.
It was a jewelry workshop in the Diamond District, a known front for the Falcone family’s laundering operations.
I didn't hesitate.
I slid into my car, the reliable Honda Civic that Roxy had mocked for being too suburban.
I drove like the devil himself was riding shotgun.
The workshop appeared closed, the metal grates pulled down tight like shut eyelids.
But a side door stood ajar, spilling a slice of sickly yellow light onto the wet pavement.
I walked in.
An old man with a jeweler’s loupe attached to his glasses sat hunched at a workbench.
He didn't look up when I entered.
"Put it on the tray," he said, his voice sounding like gravel churning in a mixer.
I placed the shards on the velvet pad.
He inspected them for a long, agonizing moment.
"This is old stone," he muttered, tilting the gem under the harsh light. "Vitiello blood."
He looked at me then.
His eyes were sharp, intelligent, and far too knowing.
"Come back in two hours."
I paced the small waiting room, unable to sit.
The air was thick with the smell of melting gold and polishing compound.
It was a sharp, metallic scent that grounded me, keeping the panic at bay.
My phone buzzed again.
It was the unknown number.
The one that had told me the sky was waiting.
"Patience is a virtue, Seraphina. But revenge is a necessity."
I stared at the screen, my breath hitching.
Who are you? I typed back.
The typing dots danced, then disappeared.
No answer.
Two hours later, the old man emerged from the back.
He held the pendant.
It wasn't just fixed.
It was transformed.
The cracks were filled with veins of liquid gold, a technique I recognized immediately: Kintsugi.
The brokenness was not hidden.
It was highlighted, turned into strength.
The jade looked more dangerous now, laced with the metal of kings.
"How much?" I asked, reaching for my wallet.
"It’s paid for," he said simply.
I froze.
"By whom?"
He went back to his workbench, dismissing me.
"The Capo dei Capi pays his debts," he said, his voice low. "And he pays for what he wants to keep."
I walked out into the night, the gold-laced jade burning a heavy hole in my pocket.
Lorenzo Falcone.
The name whispered through my mind like a threat.
He was watching.
And for the first time in three years, I didn't feel alone.
I felt hunted.
