Chapter 8

When I woke in the family medical room, my left leg was already in a thick cast, fixed in a traction frame. Painkillers made the pain distant, but the emptiness in my heart grew clearer and clearer.

Suppressed conversation came from the corridor outside the door. Voices penetrated the door panel, intermittent but clear enough.

"...you saw the situation, Mr. Conti." A male voice with a heavy Eastern European accent—Dmitri Rostov, Sofia's uncle. "The attack was clearly aimed at my niece. This is the second time. New York's security work leaves much to be desired."

Brief silence. Then Ricardo's calm, waveless voice.

"The Torino family will pay ten times the price for this attack. I guarantee it."

"Price is for later," Dmitri's voice grew heavier. "What I'm worried about now is the present. My niece is about to become the mistress of the Conti family. Her safety must be absolute. Any potential... unstable factors must be eliminated."

"Unstable factors?" Ricardo's voice revealed no emotion.

"That woman named Ella Moratti," Dmitri said directly. "She was also at the scene tonight. I heard she's not just your security advisor? She knows too much about your family's internal affairs and your... past. And now, she's clearly dissatisfied with you. A weapon with resentment who holds too many secrets—keeping her around is a ticking time bomb."

The corridor fell quiet for a long time. Long enough that I could almost hear the liquid dripping through my IV tube.

Then Ricardo's voice rose again, lower, more level than before.

"What do you want me to do?"

"For the alliance's stability, for Sofia to marry into your family with peace of mind," Dmitri said each word deliberately. "This hidden danger must be cleaned up before the wedding. This is the Rostov family's bottom line. Otherwise, we'll find it hard to believe in the Conti family's sincerity and protective capability."

Another longer silence. I could imagine Ricardo standing there, expressionless, weighing pros and cons, calculating gains and losses. Just like he handled every business deal, every negotiation.

My heart sank bit by bit, sinking into an icy sea. No anger, no sorrow, only a bone-chilling, long-anticipated coldness.

Finally, I heard footsteps—Ricardo walking in another direction. Then his low but clear voice calling a name.

"Marco."

"Boss," Marco's voice immediately responded.

"Initiate 'cleanup protocol,'" Ricardo's voice had no fluctuation, like arranging ordinary work. "Target: Ella Moratti. Make it clean."

"...Understood, boss." Marco's response hesitated for half a second but ultimately obeyed.

Footsteps receded. The corridor returned to quiet.

Ten years of loyalty, ten years of companionship, finally exchanged for an order to be "cleaned up."

I pulled the IV needle from the back of my hand, blood beading out. I supported my body to sit up, the crutch leaning against the wall. I grabbed it, struggling to prop myself up.

Every step brought drilling pain from my broken leg. But I didn't stop. I pushed open the medical room door. The corridor was empty. I followed the remembered side corridor, using the crutch for support, step by step moving toward the glass door leading to the garden.

I leaned against a corridor pillar to catch my breath, not knowing where to go next. Father's pickup hadn't arrived yet, and I could barely move.

Just then, I heard light footsteps.

Sofia walked out from behind the rose bushes, wearing a white cashmere shawl. Two tall, silent men followed her—obviously bodyguards.

"Miss Ella," her face wore that habitual, concerned expression. "What are you doing here? Your leg is so badly injured—you should rest properly."

I said nothing, only gripping my crutch tighter.

She approached a few steps, pulling a thin, long syringe from her shawl pocket, containing transparent liquid. In the moonlight, the liquid gleamed faintly.

"I see you're in so much pain," Sofia's voice was as gentle as a sigh. "Ricardo... he had no choice either. For the family, he has to make difficult decisions. This medication can let you sleep without pain. Consider it... the last dignity he's giving you."

She extended the syringe, her eyes sincere to a frightening degree. "Stop struggling, Ella. Leave quietly. It's better for you, better for everyone."

I looked at that syringe, then raised my eyes to her flawless face. Dignity? This is what she calls dignity?

The moment she extended the needle, I moved.

I used all my strength to jab the top of the metal crutch hard toward the throat of the nearest bodyguard below the Adam's apple. He grunted, covered his neck, and staggered backward. The other bodyguard immediately reached for his gun, but I had already leveraged the crutch's support, leaping on one leg, bringing all my body weight and the crutch down on his wrist.

The gun flew out of his hand. Before he could react, my hand gripping the crutch slid down, using the hard rubber tip at the bottom to strike heavily at the soft flesh beside his knee. He cried out in pain and collapsed to his knees.

All this happened within seconds. The concern on Sofia's face froze instantly, then shattered into genuine terror.

"You... you dare resist?!" she shrieked, backing up two steps. The syringe in her hand dropped onto the grass.

"Help! Someone!" she suddenly screamed with all her might, her voice piercing the garden's tranquility. "Ella's trying to kill me! She's gone mad! She wants to kill me!"

Chaotic footsteps rapidly approached from the main house. Several estate guards rushed into the garden, weapons in hand. Immediately after, Ricardo and Marco also appeared.

The garden lights were turned on, illuminating the scene of chaos. Two bodyguards—one clutching his throat coughing, one holding his knee groaning. Sofia had fallen a few steps away, her shawl disheveled, tears on her face, her whole body trembling, looking utterly frightened. And I, gripping my crutch, standing on one leg, gasping, coldly watching them all.

"Ricardo!" Sofia saw him and immediately crawled over, grabbing his pant leg. "She tried to kill me! She attacked my bodyguards with the crutch, then tried to stab me with it! I almost died!"

Ricardo's gaze swept the scene—the injured bodyguards, the syringe dropped on the ground, and finally locked firmly on my face. There was no inquiry, no doubt, only a deep, suffocating fury.

He drew the gun from his waist, walked to me in a few steps, and pressed the muzzle directly against my forehead. The cold metal touch transmitted through.

"Ella Moratti," his voice was tight with anger, like steel wire about to snap. "You dared to attack her? Who gave you that courage!"

I looked at the gun muzzle close at hand, at his eyes burning with fury, suddenly feeling all this absurdly ridiculous.

"Ricardo, according to the rules..." Sofia sobbed behind him, but her voice was clear. "Attacking a family member, attempting to murder the future mistress... should be executed on the spot. This is family law."

Ricardo's finger was on the trigger. I could feel that subtle pressure. He stared at me, his eyes churning with complexity—anger, struggle, and a trace of cold calculation.

Time passed second by second. Everyone in the garden held their breath.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was low and hoarse, but carried undeniable finality.

"Marco."

"Boss," Marco stepped forward.

"Throw her out," Ricardo said, each word like ice beads smashing on the ground. "Throw her outside the estate gates. From this moment, cut off all her economic resources, freeze her accounts, completely remove her from family records."

He put away his gun but his gaze still cut me like a knife.

"Spread my word to everyone: Ella Moratti, from tonight on, is a traitor to the Conti family. Anyone who dares shelter or help her is my enemy."

He paused, finally glancing at my pale face and cast-covered leg.

"Don't let me see you in New York again," he said. "Otherwise, next time what's pressed against your head won't be a warning."

He turned, bent down, and picked up the still-crying Sofia in his arms, walking toward the main house without looking back. The guards followed and withdrew, leaving Marco and two others.

Marco walked before me, his expression complex, but ultimately extended his hand.

"Miss Ella, please."

I discarded the blood-stained crutch, standing on one leg, swaying.

Marco gestured to the other two, who stepped forward and grabbed my arms on either side.

They dragged me toward the massive iron estate gate.

The guard opened the side door. They brought me outside the gate, then released their grip.

I lost support and fell onto the cold, rough asphalt road. The broken leg sent tearing pain, making everything go black.

Behind me, the estate gate slowly closed with a heavy, dull metallic sound, separating two worlds.

I lay by the roadside, forehead pressed against the cold ground, and began to laugh. The laugh was hoarse and ugly, quickly becoming violent coughing.

Car headlights swept past from the side. A black sedan silently glided to a stop beside me.

The car door opened. A pair of strong arms lifted me up. It was someone my father had sent.

"Miss, get in."

In the back seat were clean blankets and a first aid kit. There was also a set of new identity documents—the name on them: Isabella Costa.

I leaned back in the seat, closing my eyes.

Ella Moratti was dead.

She died tonight, on this cold road on the outskirts of New York, under the "cleanup" order and expulsion gunpoint of the man she once loved.