Chapter 2

Three days. In three days, they'd ship me to their Dominican Republic operation—officially for "recovery," actually to keep me away from the Feds who might ask questions.

I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the celebration. The compound blazed with light—made men in expensive suits, their wives dripping diamonds bought with blood money. Champagne flowed like the drug money they washed weekly.

A party for Isabelle's "recovery" from her latest breakdown. The golden daughter, fragile and protected.

I descended slowly in my prison-issued gray sweatshirt. A ghost at a coronation.

Luca stood beside her, his hand possessive on her back—the same hand that had once stroked my hair, that had signed my arrest warrant to "protect me."

I sat at the far end of the table, the children's end, while capos and consiglieres conducted business in coded language.

Isabelle leaned into Luca, her voice poison-sweet. "The grapes—could you peel them? You know I can't have the skin."

She's twenty-six years old and playing helpless.

He did it. Peeled each grape, feeding them to her like she was royalty.

She smiled at me over his shoulder. Triumphant.

My mother's voice drifted—rapid Spanish, thinking I couldn't understand. "Look at her. Seven years and she comes back like this. Ungrateful. After everything we sacrificed."

My father responded in the same language. "She was always the problem. Jealous of Isabelle, couldn't handle not being blood."

Prison taught me five languages, Mother. And how to hide murder in my eyes.

"Elena." My mother switched to English, her smile plastic. "You're very quiet. Are you feeling well?"

"I'm fine."

"You should thank your sister. Isabelle was so worried about you. She prayed for you every day."

Isabelle dabbed at her eyes. "I wanted to visit, but the doctors said it would be too traumatic for me. You understand, don't you, Elena?"

Traumatic for her. I did seven years of federal time, and visiting would traumatize her.

"Of course," I said softly. "I understand completely."

Luca's eyes narrowed, watching me like he sensed something different.

Does he know I'm not the same girl?

"A toast!" My father stood, glass raised. "To Isabelle's health. To our family's strength. To the organization that protects us all."

Everyone raised their glasses. Except me.

"Elena." Luca's voice was low, dangerous. "Raise your glass."

I looked at him—this made man who'd loved me once, who'd whispered promises while counting the Family's money, who'd put me in chains to save his own position.

I raised my glass. "To family."

The wine tasted like betrayal.

I stood without asking permission, walked through the garden doors into November cold. The dry fountain—where I'd made wishes as a child before learning wishes were for civilians, not for Moreau blood.

My phone buzzed. "Phase One: Make them comfortable. Three days, then extraction. Can you hold on?"

I typed back: "I can hold on."

Another message: "Happy birthday."

My birthday. November 20th. Twenty-eight today, forgotten completely.

They were celebrating Isabelle while I'd turned twenty-eight in a storage room, eating nothing, noticed by no one.

I looked back at the compound—at the lights and laughter and the beautiful lie of family loyalty.

Let them forget.

Let them celebrate.

Let them think they've won.

In three days, I'd be extracted. And when I came back—when I came back as someone they wouldn't recognize—I would burn it all down.