Chapter 2 2

Seraphina POV

The howling wind of the New York blizzard faded into absolute silence, only to be violently replaced by the rhythmic, mechanical thrum of a diesel engine.

I gasped, my lungs expanding painfully. Instead of freezing snow, I inhaled the stifling, heavy stench of rust, cheap oil, and lake water. I shot up from the lumpy mattress, my hands frantically touching my face. There were no hollow cheeks. No jutting collarbones. The crimson silk gown was gone, replaced by a simple, faded cotton dress.

I was sixteen again. The cramped, rust-stained cabin of the Lake Michigan cargo freighter rocked beneath me.

As I stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling, the memories of my past life crashed into my skull. I knew exactly where I was, and more importantly, I knew exactly what was about to happen.

Back in Chicago, in her lavish bedroom at the Moretti estate, my cousin Rosalia had already sealed my fate. She was consumed by jealousy that a lowly *Soldier*'s daughter raised in the countryside was arranged to marry Damien Falcone. Rosalia craved the title of *Mafia Queen*. To her, I was a thief stealing her crown.

I knew that days ago, she had handed her greedy *Associate*, Polly, fifty dollars in cash. *Ruin her face,* Rosalia had ordered. In our world, a scarred woman was damaged goods, an unforgivable insult to the Falcone name. The marriage would be voided. For this dirty work, Polly was promised another two hundred dollars and a respectable job for her mother, Isabella.

A soft knock on the rusted metal door pulled me from the dark abyss of my memories.

Polly slipped inside, a sickly sweet smile plastered on her face. She held a steaming cup of tea. "Drink up, Fia. It will help with the seasickness."

Laced with heavy sedatives. I knew the taste of that poison intimately. I played the naive country girl, offering her a grateful smile. I brought the cup to my lips, pretending to swallow the bitter liquid before slumping back against the pillows, feigning a deep, drug-induced sleep.

Hours bled by. The only sound was the churning of the black waves against the hull.

Then, the cabin door creaked open.

Polly crept into the room, the dim light catching the edge of a sharp paring knife in her hand. She leaned over the bed, her eyes fixed on my cheek, raising the blade to carve Rosalia's jealousy into my flesh.

My eyes snapped open.

I wasn't the helpless lamb she expected. I was a woman forged in eleven years of Damien's hell. Before Polly could react to the cold, murderous intent in my gaze, I rolled to the side. My hand gripped the heavy oak slat I had quietly pried from the bedframe hours ago.

I swung it with brutal force, catching her squarely in the ribs.

Polly collapsed with a wet gasp, the knife clattering to the floor. Panic replaced the greed in her eyes as she scrambled backward. "Fia, wait! Please-"

I didn't let her finish. My adoptive father, a retired *Enforcer*, had taught me how to survive, even if I had forgotten those lessons in my past life. I snatched the knife from the floor and lunged. I grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked her head back, and dragged the blade deeply across her throat.

Hot blood sprayed over my hands and the rusted floorboards. Polly choked, her eyes wide with terror as the life drained out of her. I watched her die, feeling absolutely nothing but the cold satisfaction of my first *Vendetta*.

I dragged her lifeless body toward the corner of the cabin, grabbing a frayed rope attached to a discarded, heavy iron anchor. I tied it securely around her waist. My muscles burned as I heaved her dead weight up to the filthy, open porthole, shoving her through.

With a heavy splash, the black, freezing waters of Lake Michigan swallowed her whole.

I leaned against the freezing metal wall, catching my breath, the blood drying sticky on my fingers. I thought I had executed the perfect, unseen kill.

But as I glanced out the porthole, a spark of orange flared in the pitch-black night. Up on the windswept upper deck, a man in a dark trench coat stood leaning against the railing. Silas Vance. *The Ghost*. He hadn't shouted. He hadn't run to the crew. He simply stood there, the cherry of his cigarette glowing as he stared down at my cabin window, his eyes burning with a dark, morbid fascination.