Chapter 2

Grace POV

The Grand Hall smelled of expensive perfume and laundered money.

It was the annual Family Charity Gala.

A polite, glittering way for the Vitiello crime family to wash their blood money in public while the city's elite applauded the performance.

I stood next to my sculpture.

It was a four-foot phoenix rising from a bed of jagged steel shards.

I had spent six months welding it.

My hands were covered in tiny white burns from the torch, scars I refused to hide.

They were proof I was real in a room full of counterfeits.

"It's aggressive," a voice drawled behind me.

I didn't turn.

I recognized the cloying scent of Chanel No. 5 and entitlement immediately.

Alexandria "Lexi" Moretti walked into my line of sight.

She was wearing a red dress that cost more than my parents' life insurance payout.

She gripped her glass of champagne like a weapon.

"Grace," she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Still playing with scrap metal? It looks dangerous. Someone might get hurt."

She flicked the wing of my phoenix with a manicured nail.

"Careful," I signed, my movements sharp.

She laughed. "Oh, right. The hands. I forgot you don't use words."

Josiah walked up behind her.

He looked like a king tonight-or perhaps a sacrifice dressed in silk.

Tuxedo, slicked-back hair, the weight of the organization visible in the set of his shoulders.

He put a hand on the small of Lexi's back.

It was a possessive claim, a gesture of ownership.

He didn't look at me.

He looked at my art, and his eyes were flat, devoid of the warmth I used to find there.

"The judges are ready," Josiah said.

Madame Dubois, the French art dealer the Family used to move stolen masterpieces, walked over.

She adjusted her glasses, peering closely at my phoenix.

"Magnificent," she whispered. "The pain... it is palpable. It screams."

She turned to Lexi's entry.

It was a generic marble bust of a Roman soldier.

Technically proficient, but soulless. It looked like something you bought at a high-end furniture store to fill empty space.

"And this," Madame Dubois said politely. "Is very... traditional."

Capo Davies walked into the circle.

He was the judge.

He was also the man who ran the docks Lexi's father controlled.

Davies looked at Josiah.

Josiah looked at the floor, a muscle feathering in his jaw, before his gaze flickered to Lexi.

Lexi leaned into him, whispering something in his ear.

Probably a reminder of the trade routes.

"The winner of this year's grant," Davies announced, his voice booming through the hall, "is Alexandria Moretti. For capturing the strength of our heritage."

Applause rippled through the room.

It was polite, bought applause.

Madame Dubois looked shocked. She started to speak, but a sharp look from Davies silenced her.

Lexi squealed and kissed Josiah on the cheek.

He didn't pull away.

He smiled.

It was the cold, practiced smile of a man closing a deal.

Lexi turned to me, clutching her trophy.

"Maybe next year, sweetie," she said loud enough for the circle to hear. "Although, art really requires a voice to sell it. Broken dolls don't make good salesmen."

The room went quiet.

People watched.

They wanted to see the mute girl cry.

They wanted to see the charity case crumble.

I looked at Josiah.

I waited for the protector.

He took a sip of his drink and looked away.

He chose the trade routes.

He chose the politics.

Something hot and sharp snapped in my chest.

I stepped forward.

I invaded Lexi's personal space.

She flinched, stepping back against Josiah.

I looked her dead in the eye, then shifted my gaze to Josiah.

I didn't sign.

I opened my mouth.

My voice was raspy from disuse, low and rough like gravel grinding together.

"He chose business."

It wasn't a scream.

It was a verdict.

Josiah dropped his glass.

It shattered on the marble floor, champagne exploding like a small bomb.

The sound echoed in the silence of the hall.

I turned my back on them.

I walked out the double doors, leaving the shards of glass and the shards of my hero behind me.