Chapter 4

Elena Vitello POV

The Sanctuary was one of those Chicago clubs where the mob laundered money and sins.

I wasn't supposed to be here.

I was a Vitello princess. I belonged in tearooms and charity galas, not hiding in a smoky booth.

But tonight, I wore a black dress that blended with the shadows. My hair was pulled back. The dim lights hid my face.

I saw them in the corner booth.

Luca, holding court like he was king.

His arm draped over Sofia's shoulders.

She was wearing white.

The audacity almost made me laugh.

They were playing a drinking game. A bottle of vodka sat in the center of the table, half empty. One of Luca's soldiers, Marco, spun it.

The bottle pointed at Luca.

"Capo?" Marco slurred, drunk.

"Truth," Luca said, taking a long drag of his cigar. "I got nothing to hide."

Laughter around the table.

"Alright," Marco grinned. "Princess or mistress? Who's better in bed?"

The air in the booth thickened.

Sofia pouted, tracing a finger down Luca's chest with mock innocence.

Luca laughed, exhaling smoke.

"Elena?" he said, loud enough for the strippers to hear. "She lies there. A dead fish. She's a chore."

He pulled Sofia closer, squeezing her thigh.

"But this one? She's a firecracker. She does things Elena can't even spell."

More laughter. Raucous. Cruel.

Sofia giggled, preening.

"But ain't you worried about her old man?" Marco asked.

"Sofia has cancer," Luca said. "She doesn't have much time. I want to comfort her in her final days."

Sofia looked touched, leaning into his chest.

"You know I love Elena. I'll marry her. Spend my life with her. She needs me."

"I just... I don't want to break Sofia's heart. If I could, I'd give Sofia a wedding too."

"This never leaves this room. You keep your mouths shut."

He raised his glass.

"To the princess!" he shouted.

"To the princess!" the crew echoed.

I stood ten feet away in the shadows.

I felt it. Not a snap. A slow, complete tearing inside.

It wasn't my heart. That was already gone.

It was the last thread holding me to the rules. To being a good girl. To the code.

I stepped forward.

Into the light of the booth.

The laughter died.

Marco dropped his glass. It shattered.

Luca looked up. The smile froze on his face.

"Elena?" he choked out.

I didn't look at him. I looked at his crew.

The men who had shared my table.

I reached for the vodka bottle on the table. I poured a measure into a clean glass. Raised it.

"To the princess," I said.

I drank it down.

The burn was welcome. It matched the emptiness in my stomach from three days of not eating.

Luca scrambled to his feet, pushing Sofia off his lap.

"Elena, wait, this isn't-we were just joking-"

I slammed the glass down on the table.

It didn't break, but the sound echoed like a gunshot.

"Sit down, soldier," I ordered.

He froze.

I had never ordered him before.

I turned to Sofia.

She was trembling, clutching her purse to her chest.

"Nice dress," I said, my voice flat. "Good for a funeral."

I turned and walked away.

I didn't run. Women like me don't run.

But when I reached the exit, the combination of hunger and alcohol hit me like a wall. My vision blurred.

The floor tilted, the deck of a sinking ship.

My hand reached for a railing that wasn't there, and the world went dark.