The year I turned seventeen, I gave up everything for a street punk named Marco Gallo. I gave him my all—my body, my connections, my loyalty. I helped him climb from a nobody to a boss, building his territory brick by blood-soaked brick. For seven years, I stood by his side as his strategist, his woman, and his partner.

Then, for a younger dancer, he pushed me off a penthouse balcony.

I should have died. But instead, I woke up at seventeen again, back in the cheap motel where our "career" began. This time, I knew the truth: Marco didn't want a partner. He wanted a stepping stone.

So, I will give him exactly what he deserves—nothing.

This time, I will offer my loyalty and my intellect to a family that truly values them. And when Marco comes crawling back, begging for the woman he threw away, I'll show him: some betrayals don't get a second chance.

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1

At twenty-nine, the empire I had spent seven years building with Marco Gallo crumbled into a bitter joke.

We had fought our way from the bedroom to the penthouse balcony, ending in a standoff by the railing. Rage surged through me, a raw urge to tear the man in front of me to pieces.

"Marco!" I jabbed a finger into his chest. "Are you even fit to be a leader? I was with you when you were a street punk with nothing! I built this life with you, and now you’re chasing some dancer? Do your men even see me as the woman of this family anymore?"

A flicker of malice crossed his eyes. I knew that look—the raw violence he kept coiled inside was surfacing. I once loved those eyes when they shone just for me. Now, they were chips of ice.

"Alessia De Luca, cut the act." His voice dropped to a low, dangerous rumble. "You were the one who wanted to escape your family's golden cage. You climbed into my bed at seventeen, begging me to take you away. Now you want to play the victim?"

His words landed like a knife in my chest.

"What did you just say?" My voice trembled, but not from fear. It was pure rage. "I begged you? Marco, you were the one who said we'd conquer this world together. You swore I was your only woman."

"That was before." He glanced away. "People change, Alessia. I'm somebody now. I have a whole crew to feed. I'm not that poor kid who had nothing but you anymore."

I laughed, a sound so bitter and broken that tears burned my eyes.

"So now that you've made it, you want to kick me to the curb? You want a prettier vase?"

"Yes." He turned back to me, his eyes cold. "I'm tired of you."

Utterly enraged, I lunged at him. We crashed together, tearing and clawing at each other. But the balcony floor was slick with spilled wine, and our feet slipped. He gave a sharp shove, and my whole body flipped over the edge.

An explosion of pain ripped through me. Then, nothingness.

When I woke up, the sour stench of cheap cigarettes and whiskey filled my nostrils, and I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

I opened my eyes to neon light flashing through a grimy window. I was in some rundown motel, with yellowed pornographic posters on the walls and empty liquor bottles scattered on the floor. The sheets on the narrow bed beneath me were covered in unidentifiable stains and riddled with cigarette burns.

I froze, lifting a hand to touch my face.

My skin was smooth and soft, carrying the faint, sweet scent of a young girl.

I was seventeen again, back to the day before I ran away from home.

Back then, I thought this place was paradise, the starting point of our dreams. It was where Marco and I would take on the world.

Now I saw it for what it truly was: a garbage dump that hid all sorts of filth.

I had no idea what possessed me back then to leave my family’s luxurious manor and run off with a street rat to a dump like this.

My family held a prominent position among the Five Families of New York. My father was the Underboss of the De Luca family, and he treated me like his Principessa. They had my entire life perfectly planned out for me: receive the best education, marry the heir of another powerful family, and become the matriarch to solidify the alliance.

Someone like me and a street punk like Marco should never have crossed paths.

But then, that rainy night came.

I was sneaking out of the house, passing through an abandoned warehouse district. That's when I saw Marco being beaten by a group of guys from a rival family.

After they finally left, I found him lying in the mud, wearing only a tattered leather jacket. A pool of blood was forming beneath him. His eyes were half-open, a fierce, rebellious light still burning in them. He was just seconds away from pulling the gun hidden in his jacket.

I was so stupid back then, so naive. I should have run, but my feet were rooted to the spot.

Like an idiot, I called our family's underground doctor and even used my own scarf to bind his wound.

"Hey, are you okay?"

The boy forced his eyes open, his gaze wild and dangerous. "Little princess, aren't you afraid of me?"

My voice trembled when I answered. "That wasn't a fair fight. You should be more careful."

He let out a harsh laugh, then closed his eyes and went limp, ignoring me completely.

Like a fool, I squatted there, holding an umbrella over him until the doctor arrived. I even slipped the doctor some money to cover the medical bills.

I thought that was the end of it.

But a few days later, Marco appeared at the edge of a local underground fighting ring, acting like he owned the place.

He tossed a thick roll of cash onto the table in front of me—the prize money the ring had just paid him. A relaxed smile played on his dangerously handsome face. "For the doctor the other day. Thanks, little princess."

The moment he left, I became the talk of the family's younger set.

My friend grabbed my arm, practically screaming. "Alessia, are you crazy? That guy is a street punk! I heard he works for the black market. He's got blood on his hands, you have to stay away from him!"

A nosy girl sidled up to me, her eyes sparkling. "Wait, you actually know Marco? Can you get me his number? God, he's so hot when he fights!"

I stood there in complete shock.

After school, a roaring motorcycle blocked my path with a screech of brakes. Marco sat on it, shirtless, shamelessly showing off his muscled, tattooed chest as he whistled at me. "Hop on. I'll take you for a ride."

A group of punks behind him started hooting and catcalling.

"Boss, she looks too clean. What's the fun in that?"

"Yeah, that dancer at the club is way more fun. That body, that smell!"

My face went pale. Like a startled rabbit, I lowered my head and fled.

Their wild laughter followed me all the way home.

Back then, I truly hated him. He was a beast, and we lived in completely different worlds.

But Marco had the thickest skin I'd ever seen. He showed up every day, simply refusing to take no for an answer.

Everything changed the day I was harassed by some low-level thugs from a rival family. Some drunken thug from a rival crew cornered me in a bar and started getting handsy.

Just when I thought I was done for, Marco appeared out of nowhere like a feral beast, sending the guy flying with a single punch.

He stepped between us, his arm wrapping protectively around me. His voice was softer than I'd ever heard it. "Don't be afraid. I'm here."

That day, he followed my car on his motorcycle, his intense gaze fixed on my rearview mirror until I drove safely through the gates of the manor.

In that moment, my seventeen-year-old heart shattered all the walls I had built around it.

That feeling back then was like an out-of-control wildfire, raw and unstoppable.

Marco and I started dating in secret, even talking about the future. But then my parents found out I was seeing a street punk.

They were furious. They grounded me and demanded I cut off all contact, insisting that people like him were dangerous and that I was ruining my future.

But all I could think about was Marco.

For seventeen years, I had been the perfect, obedient daughter.

Marco was the hammer that smashed all those family rules, dragging me into a world that was dangerous but undeniably real.

He would sneak me out of the manor for underground parties, and we'd race through the city late at night. He stood by me the first time I was in real danger, protecting me with a brutal determination.

For what felt like fate, I jumped out of a second-story window and ran away with him.

In a safe house outside the city, he held me so tight I could feel his heart pounding like a war drum.

He asked me, "Alessia, if you're with me, you won't have your family's protection. We'll have to make it on our own. Are you scared?"

With stars in my eyes, I looked up at him. "I'm not scared."

"Good. I swear, I, Marco Gallo, will die a miserable death if I ever betray you."

His vow felt genuine at the time.

And the days that followed were brutal.

We lived in one rundown motel after another, surviving by planning small-time heists. The winter nights were so cold we had to huddle together just to stay warm.

Marco would give me the only hot meal he managed to snatch, using his own body to warm my frozen feet.

We fought like hell to create a better life.

Marco was smart and fearless. With his ambition and my strategy, he began to recruit other street punks and slowly build his own crew.

I went from a helpless rich girl to the brains of the operation.

We moved from that rundown motel into our own apartment and eventually had our own territory.

At our humble wedding, he kissed me in front of all his men, declared me his woman, and the whole crew cheered for us.

I thought that was our happy ending, that we would be together forever.

Until that young dancer showed up, barely an adult. She was so young, and she looked at him with that same adoring gaze that reminded me of myself all those years ago.

Marco fell for her.

We argued, we threw things, and it eventually escalated into a war of fists and words as sharp as knives.

We went from partners in crime to enemies who wanted each other dead.

The door was suddenly thrown open, and Marco walked in—looking barely eighteen. But when his eyes met mine, there wasn't a trace of youthful infatuation. Instead, I saw something that made my heart sink: a deep, dark weariness and a familiar resentment, the kind forged only by years of shared history.

In a single glance, I understood.

He had come back, too. And he knew I had as well.