Chapter 5

The waterfront was a chaotic sea of bodies.

It was the Outfit's annual Fourth of July celebration, one of the rare moments where the families and civilians mingled near the docks.

I stood by the iron railing, watching the dark water churn below.

I shouldn't have come.

But my father had been adamant. "Show your face, Elena. Show them you are strong."

"Wine?"

I turned at the voice.

Sofia was standing there, holding two glasses of deep red vintage.

She offered a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes; they remained cold, predatory.

"A peace offering?" she asked, tilting her head.

I didn't reach for the glass.

"Get away from me," I said, my voice low.

"Oops," she chirped.

With a deliberate flick of her wrist, she tilted her hand.

The wine splashed across the front of my white silk dress.

The cold liquid saturated the fabric instantly, rendering the material translucent.

It clung to my skin like a second layer.

My bra, the curve of my stomach-everything was suddenly visible under the harsh dock lights.

It wasn't just embarrassing; it was a violation.

"Oh my god!" Sofia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in feigned shock. "I'm so clumsy! I'm so sorry!"

Heads turned.

Whistles cut through the air.

Catcalls erupted from the civilian side of the barrier, hungry and crude.

I crossed my arms over my chest, shielding myself as heat scorched my cheeks.

"Cover her!"

Luca's voice boomed over the crowd.

He and Matteo rushed toward us, their movements synchronized.

They were already stripping off their suit jackets-the ones with the Vitiello crest embroidered on the silk lining.

Thank God.

They were finally stepping up.

I reached out, my hand trembling slightly as I waited for Luca's jacket to settle over my shoulders.

But he brushed past me.

Without a glance in my direction, he wrapped the heavy wool around Sofia.

"Are you okay?" Luca asked her, his voice laced with concern as he checked her hands. "Did the glass cut you?"

Matteo was right behind him, draping his jacket over Sofia's shoulders as well, doubling the warmth around her.

"She's shivering," Matteo noted, rubbing Sofia's arms.

I stood there.

Wet.

Exposed.

Shivering violently in the wind whipping off the lake.

They covered the girl who spilled the wine.

They left their Princess naked to the world.

"Let's go watch the fireworks," Sofia giggled, her voice trembling theatrically as she snuggled into their scents. "I want to light one to calm my nerves!"

They led her away toward the launch zone, their backs to me.

I stood frozen, the wine drying sticky and cold on my skin.

I should have left right then.

But my feet felt leaden; I couldn't move.

I watched them descend to the lower dock.

Sofia picked up a Roman Candle.

It was a large tube, industrial-grade, meant to be staked firmly in the ground.

"Be careful, Sof," Luca laughed, indulging her.

She lit the fuse.

Sparks hissed and flew into the night.

She laughed, spinning around in a circle.

"Look at me!"

Then, she leveled the tube.

She wasn't spinning randomly anymore.

She stopped.

She aimed the mouth of the cannon directly at the upper deck.

Directly at me.

It wasn't a prank.

I saw the malice sharp and clear in her eyes.

It was a hit.

"Sofia, no!" Matteo shouted, realizing the danger too late, but he didn't grab the tube.

Boom.

A ball of green fire shot out.

It smashed into the railing inches in front of me and exploded.

Sparks showered my face, stinging like hornets.

I flinched back, stumbling.

Boom.

The second one didn't miss.

It struck my left shoulder with the force of a hammer.

The heat was instantaneous.

The silk of my dress, soaked in flammable alcohol, caught fire immediately.

"Ah!" I screamed, a raw sound tearing from my throat as I slapped at the flames.

The fire ate into my skin.

The air filled with the sickening scent of burning hair and cooking meat.

I dropped to the ground, rolling, thrashing, trying desperately to smother the inferno.

Through the agony, through the choking smoke, I looked down at the dock.

Luca and Matteo were moving.

But they weren't running to me.

They were grabbing Sofia.

"Did the kickback hurt you?" Luca was asking her, frantically checking her hands for burns.

"I'm scared! It went off wrong!" she was crying, burying her face in his chest.

They checked her for scratches while I burned alive.

They hesitated.

That hesitation was the bullet.

A stranger-a waiter-rushed forward and threw a bucket of ice water over me.

The fire hissed and died, leaving steam rising from my charred flesh.

But the damage was done.

My skin was ruined.

Yet, as I lay on the wet concrete, staring up at the stars spinning dizzily above me, I realized the burn on my shoulder was nothing.

The real scar was the one they had just carved into my soul.

They let me burn.

And from those ashes, Elena Vitiello died.

And something else-something cold, hard, and unforgiving-began to rise.