Chapter Three

Uncle Vincent’s call came the next morning. His voice sounded like sandpaper on stone.

“Elvira. I received something… interesting. Is Luca with you?”

“No.” My fingers toyed with the phone cord.

“Hmph.” Vincent’s tone went cold. “Looks like he’s busy. Girl, you’ve been wronged. But the family has its rules. Women shouldn’t meddle in men’s affairs—much less use this… sneaking, tattling method. I’ll suppress it this time, but there won’t be a next. As for Luca, I’ll remind him to mind his boundaries.”

“Thank you, Uncle Vincent.” My voice stayed meek.

What he wanted was my obedience—and a handle on Luca. I gave him both.

That night, when Luca came home, his face was as dark as thunder before a storm. He went straight to the study and slammed the door. I heard muffled shouting—him raging at someone on the phone.

An hour later he came out. He saw me sitting in the living room. His expression eased a fraction, but tension still held him tight.

“Vincent called you,” he said, eyes assessing.

“Yes. He told me to advise you… to watch your image.” I kept my gaze on the book in my hands.

“That old bastard.” Luca hissed under his breath. He crossed the room, hooked a finger under my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You went crying to him?”

“I only answered his questions.” I met his eyes. “I said my husband has been busy lately and might’ve missed a few details. He said he’d remind you.”

Luca stared, searching for a crack. At last he let go, raking a hand through his hair in irritation.

“Enough. Stay away from those old men. My business is mine.” He paused. “This weekend, you’re coming with me to the White Glove Club. There’s an important gathering. Dress properly.”

Another occasion for him to show off his “possession,” to lock down alliances.

I nodded. “Alright.”

The weekend came. I put on the deep blue velvet gown he’d chosen and fastened the emerald necklace—his “apology”—around my throat.

In the mirror, the woman looked elegant, pale, like a lavish doll with no breath left in it.

The gathering was in a secret top-floor private room. Smoke hung thick; cards snapped and shuffled. Luca had an arm around my waist as he worked the room, laughing and talking with “representatives” from other families and the city’s respectable “businessmen.”

He smiled easily. His hand, though, kept rubbing my back—a claim of ownership.

Cecilia was there, unbelievably. Invited as a “guest performer” from Nightfall. She wore a sequined dress that barely covered anything, perched on the lap of a bald arms dealer, giggling as she fed him a drink. When she saw us, she tossed me a provocative look.

Luca frowned and murmured something to one of his men. The man nodded and headed toward Cecilia.

And then the room exploded.

The heavy door slammed open. Masked men with guns stormed in, barrels sweeping the crowd.

“Nobody move! The Razor Gang wants an old debt paid—by Luca Cosio!”

Screams broke out. Chaos surged. Luca yanked me behind him in an instant; his other hand went to the back of his waist.

Gunfire cracked. The crystal chandelier shattered. Darkness and screaming tangled together.

“Out through the terrace!” Luca barked, shoving me toward a side door.

At the same time, I heard Cecilia’s shriek slice through the noise.

“Luca! Save me!”

I looked back.

I saw a man seize Cecilia by the hair, a gun pressed to her temple. Her face was ruined with terror, tears streaming, reaching toward Luca with both hands.

And I saw Luca—without even a heartbeat of hesitation—move. He became a blur, slamming into the captor, throwing him off, hauling Cecilia down beneath him, shielding her with his body, his back turned into a wall against the line of fire.

Me—thrown by his shove—I staggered into the side door’s metal frame. A sharp pain detonated from my shoulder blade. I choked on a sound and went down hard.

The chaos dragged on for minutes. Luca’s men and the club’s security wrestled control back. The intruders died or fled.

The lights came up again over wreckage.

Luca helped Cecilia—shivering, clinging to his arm—back to her feet. Blood ran from a scrape on his forehead. His eyes were wolf-bright with brutality as he scanned the room.

Only then did his gaze fall on me, still on the floor.

He froze. Released Cecilia. Strided over.

“Elvira?” He crouched and checked my shoulder. My gown was torn. Skin split open. Blood seeped through.

“I…” Pain stole my words. Darkness pulsed at the edges of my vision.

Luca looked frantic. He tore off his tie, clumsy as he pressed at the wound to stop the bleeding.

His hands still carried Cecilia’s tears—or something else.

He lifted me in his arms and roared at his man: “Get a doctor! Back to the old estate!”

“Luca… I’m scared…” Cecilia tottered over again, grabbing his arm, shaking like a leaf in a storm.

Luca didn’t even look at her. “Shut up. Stay there!”

But he didn’t push her away.

In the car to the hospital, I watched neon lights smear and retreat beyond the window. My shoulder throbbed in waves, but it couldn’t touch the sound inside me—the sound of something collapsing for good.

In that moment, he chose her. He threw himself between her and the gun.

And the only “protection” he gave me was a shove.

I closed my eyes.

And heard, with perfect clarity, the last warm thing inside me shatter into ice.

The hospital reeked of disinfectant. While the doctor cleaned and stitched, Luca stood outside the door making calls, his voice harsh and vicious.

Only after I’d changed into a hospital gown did he come in. No greeting. He sat by the bed, silent for a while, then finally spoke.

“Today… it was urgent.” He sounded like he was selecting words. “Cecilia had a gun to her head. She knows a lot of Nightfall’s guest list—she can’t be compromised. You were closer to the door. I thought you could get out.”

I looked at him.

In his gray-blue eyes were bloodshot threads. Worry. Guilt.

But deeper than that—something had shifted.

“Mm. I understand,” I said.

He seemed to exhale in relief and took my uninjured hand. “When you’re better, we’ll go to Sicily. Godfather wants to meet you. It’s time the people there officially get to know Mrs. Cosio.”

Sicily. Cementing position. Meeting the real power.

His “compensation.” His “promise.”

“Alright,” I said again.

He leaned in, trying to kiss my forehead. I tilted slightly away. The kiss landed on my hair.

His body went still for a moment. He didn’t comment. He straightened. “Rest. I have things to handle.”

He left.

Outside the door, I heard him instruct the men on guard. “Watch the lady closely. And send someone to take Cecilia back. Tell her to behave for a while.”

Footsteps faded.

I lay back, staring at the white ceiling. My shoulder burned.

Sicily?

No.

It was time to execute the final part of the plan.

I pulled the micro-phone hidden under my pillow. Its faint glow lit my eyes—cold and bright.

“The viper has fully coiled in place. Execute final phase: shed the shell.”

Send.