I was exiled at the break of dawn.
No luggage. No money. Just the blood-crusted clothes on my back and a body that felt less like flesh and bone and more like a roadmap of violence.
The Don's men drove me to the city limits, the tires crunching on gravel as they pulled over. They kicked me out of the car like a stray dog.
"Don't come back," one of them sneered, tossing my purse onto the sidewalk. "Next time, it's a bullet."
I watched their taillights fade, then turned and limped to a bus station. I used the emergency cash I kept sewn into the lining of my purse to buy a ticket to the Upper East Side.
I had one place left to go. The old apartment Dante and I lived in before he became a Capo. My passport was there. My jewelry. My escape.
The doorman didn't recognize me. Why would he? I looked like a junkie—bruised, limping, my hair matted with dried chili water from the torture. But I had the key.
I let myself in. The apartment was quiet. Dust motes danced in the sunlight like ghosts of the life I used to have.
I went straight to the safe in the bedroom closet. I punched in the code. Our anniversary.
The red light blinked. Error.
I tried again. Error.
"Looking for this?"
I spun around. Lucia was sitting in the armchair in the corner, looking pristine in white silk. She held my passport in one hand and a stun gun in the other.
She stood up, the blue electricity crackling between the prongs of the taser with a menacing buzz.
"You just don't know when to quit," she purred.
"That's my passport," I said, backing away until my spine hit the wall. "Give it to me, and I'll disappear. You'll never see me again."
"But Dante might," she smiled, cruel and sharp. "He might get sentimental. He might remember how you looked before I ruined you."
She lunged.
I tried to dodge, but my broken ribs screamed in protest, slowing me down. The taser hit my thigh.
The pain was electric, a white-hot lightning bolt seizing my muscles. I crumpled to the floor.
Lucia stood over me. She kicked me in the stomach. I curled into a ball, retching bile onto the hardwood.
"You are nothing," she spat. "You are the past. I am the future."
The front door opened. Heavy footsteps echoed in the hall.
"Lucia?" Dante's voice.
He walked into the bedroom. He saw me on the floor, broken and gasping. He saw the taser in Lucia's hand.
He didn't rush to help me. He walked over to Lucia and gently took the weapon from her, his expression unreadable.
"What are you doing here?" he asked me, his voice tired and devoid of warmth.
"Getting my things," I gasped, clutching my side. "Leaving."
Dante looked at the passport in Lucia's hand. He took it. He looked at the photo of me, young and smiling, taken before the Bratva, before the betrayal.
He tossed it onto my chest. It landed with a soft thud.
"Go," he said.
"Dante!" Lucia protested, her voice shrill. "She broke in!"
"She is leaving, Lucia," Dante said, his voice hard as stone. He looked down at me, his eyes dark. "You are still my property on paper, Seraphina. But you are dead to this family. If you ever touch my heir, if you ever come near Lucia again..."
He let the threat hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.
I grabbed the passport. I used the bedframe to pull myself up, my legs trembling. I looked at him one last time.
"You will regret this," I whispered, my voice raspy with unshed tears. "When you realize what you've done, there will be no one left to forgive you."
I limped out of the apartment. I didn't look back.
I went straight to the airport. I didn't go to the hospital. I didn't go to the police. I bought a ticket to the first international flight leaving the terminal. New Zealand. The end of the world.
Three days later, my phone rang. It was a burner I had bought at a kiosk. Only one person had the number—Lola.
But it wasn't Lola.
"We have her," a distorted voice said. "Bring two million to the abandoned textile factory in Queens. Or we cut the baby out."
My blood ran cold. Then, the realization hit me like a physical blow.
They didn't have me. I was in Auckland, watching the rain fall on a strange city.
They had Lucia.
Or so they thought.
