Heath Valachi, heir to Chicago's most secretive mafia family, was brutally cast out by his own father. And it was all because of me, a surgical intern. He was stripped of his multi-million dollar inheritance and cast into the streets, left to scrape by as a low-level enforcer.

For three years, he hobbled through the dark underworld on his injured leg, fighting for survival, all to pay for my tuition.

I was supposedly the luckiest girl alive. After all, I was the one who had made the arrogant mafia scion cast aside his pride, willing to throw it all away for love in the city's most dangerous quarter.

Today is the third anniversary of our first meeting.

With the signed Hawthorne family inheritance papers in my hand, I was ready to reveal my true identity and pull him from this sea of blood and misery.

I strode down the corridor of The Royal Palace, carrying a box of tiramisu—his favorite.

Through the half-open door of a private room, I saw Heath Valachi. He stood ramrod straight in an impeccable custom suit, his legs perfectly fine. And he was slipping a blood-red ruby ring, emblazoned with the Ricci family crest, onto the finger of Isabella Ricci—the Principessa of the city’s most powerful family.

"Isabella," he murmured, "for the past three years, I used that surgical intern as a cover to dodge my father's matchmaking. I've saved myself for you. You're the only one I've ever wanted to marry."

I looked down at my own hands, scarred from stitching gunshot wounds in an underground clinic, and tore the inheritance papers to shreds.

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1

Laughter from the private room bled through the heavy oak door.

Heath’s men raised their crystal whiskey glasses, their voices a chorus of mockery and flattery.

"Heath, you're a goddamn genius. Faking your exile, hiding out in the slums... And that girl—what's her name, Holly? The naive little intern actually believes you gave up your birthright for her. She’s still stitching up lowlifes in some back-alley clinic to foot your bills."

Heath let out an easy laugh. His long, slender fingers gently stroked the hair by Isabella's ear, a look of tenderness in his eyes that I had never seen before—an expression he had never once shown me in our gloomy little apartment.

"How else was I supposed to fool my father without some gullible civilian for cover? As if she's worth giving up real power for."

Isabella draped herself against his chest, her voice dripping with contempt.

"So, are you going back to that moldy little apartment tonight? I can't stand the smell of disinfectant that clings to you."

Heath pressed a deep kiss to her lips, his voice low and doting.

"Just a few more days. My father is officially announcing my return to the family tomorrow. I'll dump that nuisance then. Tonight, I'm staying with you. I'm not going back."

I froze outside the door, a blade of ice twisting in my heart.

Memories of the last three years flooded back, sharp and cruel.

I remembered him carrying me through a hail of bullets when I had a raging fever, dragging that supposedly injured leg, not even flinching when a stray shot grazed his arm.

I remembered pulling endless shifts to buy him painkillers, treating the most dangerous gunshot wounds in an underground clinic until my hands shook with fatigue.

I remembered him holding me, whispering, "Holly, I lost everything for you. You're all I have left."

It was all a lie.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen.

Heath, is your mission tonight safe? I made your favorite pasta.

The "typing..." bubble appeared at the top of the screen.

Half a minute later, he replied.

Bloody turf war tonight. The Capo has me on guard duty until dawn. Go to sleep. Don't wait up. I'll pick up an extra shift, and I’ll buy you that new coat tomorrow.

Through the crack in the door, I watched Heath finish typing and toss his phone onto the sofa. He turned, scooped Isabella into his arms, and carried her toward the inner room of the suite.

The door slammed shut with a thud, cutting off the raucous laughter inside.

I turned and walked away. The hallway carpet was plush, but every step was a fresh agony, like walking on shattered glass.

I returned to our basement apartment—less than 800 square feet, the air thick with the musty smell of a place that never saw the sun.

On the table sat the mushroom pasta I had made from scratch, now a congealed, greasy lump.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the stack of collection notices on the table. They were the only proof of our three years together.

To pay for his so-called treatment, I had sold my blood on the black market, surviving on stale bread and canned soup. He had once wept, swearing that one day, he would give me the world.

I had believed him. I had ripped out my own heart and offered it to him on a silver platter.

In his eyes, I was just a tool to get him out of an arranged marriage.

My phone screen lit up. A message from Sal Gallo, the Hawthorne family's Consigliere.

Miss Hawthorne, the Don wishes to know when you are bringing your fiancé home. The succession papers are ready.

Three months ago, the Hawthornes—the city's most powerful mafia family—had found me, confirming I was their long-lost Principessa.

To protect Heath's fragile pride, I had hidden my identity, planning to reveal the truth on our anniversary.

My fingers trembled as I typed my reply.

Leave his name off the documents. I'm coming home.

I leaned against the headboard, staring into the darkness all night.

At five in the morning, the rusty iron door shrieked open.

Heath stumbled in, reeking of cheap tobacco and stale blood. His left leg dragged stiffly behind him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his face a mask of exhaustion.

The moment he saw me sitting on the bed, his expression softened into one of gentle concern. He limped over, squatted in front of me, and took my hand.

"Why are you still awake? Didn't I tell you not to wait up?"

He pulled a cheap, crushed cupcake from his jacket, offering it to me like some grand prize.

"Saw this on sale at the convenience store on my way back. Happy third anniversary, Holly."

My eyes fell from the pathetic cupcake to the collar of his shirt, just visible as he squatted.

The metallic smell of blood couldn't quite mask a cold, distinct perfume. It was Isabella Ricci's signature custom blend—I’d seen her flaunt it on social media.

On his neck, a crude, roaring wolf head—the Ricci family crest—had been hastily inked over the 'H' tattoo he'd gotten for me.

I pulled my hand from his. My fingertips were ice-cold.

"Wasn't there a turf war?"

Heath's eyes flickered. He managed a weary smile.

"The Capo saw my leg was acting up and let me go early. What, you were worried about me?"

He reached out to touch my face. I turned my head away. He froze, his hand hovering in the air between us.

"I was downtown on an errand today. I passed the Valachi family's club," I said, my eyes locked on his, searching for any crack in his facade.

Heath's pupils constricted for a split second. But he recovered quickly, even letting out a theatrical sigh.

"A place like that… it's another world, Holly. I'm sorry you have to suffer with me. Once I save up enough this month, I'll take you somewhere nice, I promise."

His act was flawless. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would still believe he was the man who had sacrificed everything for me.

I stood up, walked to the sink, and splashed cold water on my face. The icy shock cleared my head.

"Heath, do you ever regret it?" I asked, my back to him.

He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.

"Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. I'll never regret it."

I looked at his deeply affectionate reflection in the grimy mirror, and a wave of nausea rose in my throat. I shoved his arms away.

"I'm tired. Let's just sleep."

Heath stared at my cold, rigid back, his brow furrowed in confusion. But he didn't press, just dragged his supposedly lame leg into the tiny bathroom to wash up.

Over the sound of running water, I reached into the pocket of the jacket he’d thrown on the table.

My fingers closed around a crumpled receipt.

The Royal Palace. Total: $5,000,000.

I slid the receipt back into his pocket.

The next morning, Heath changed into his faded street clothes, ready to leave.

"Holly, I'll try to pick up as much work as I can today. I'll bring you back some roasted chicken tonight." He waved from the doorway, his smile bright and guileless.

I watched his limping figure disappear around the corner, then closed the door, my expression hardening.

I dragged a suitcase from under the bed and began to pack. There wasn't much. The most expensive thing I'd bought in three years was a discounted lab coat.

I left everything that reminded me of him behind. The butterfly knife he gave me. The cheap photos we took in this very room.

Before leaving, I tucked the receipt from The Royal Palace under the glass tabletop.

The lock clicked shut. Three years. Over.

I slid into the back of a black, armored car sent by the Hawthorne family. I opened my phone and logged into an encrypted dark web forum, accessible only to core members of Chicago’s underworld.

A stickied post on the homepage was generating a firestorm. The title read: The Valachi Prince Returns—Isabella Ricci Secures Her Throne as Queen.

I clicked on the thread. It was filled with photos and videos from last night's party at The Royal Palace.

In one video, Heath was on one knee, placing the ring on Isabella's finger. Isabella, a bashful smile lighting up her face, threw herself into his arms.

The comments section had exploded.

Someone had posted: What about that intern he was using as a shield? Heard she ruined her hands stitching up thugs for three years to pay for his ‘recovery.’

Isabella Ricci's own account had replied directly: Just a cheap little bandage. Heath says she’s annoyingly clingy—it’ll take some effort to ditch her. But I’m sure a hundred thousand dollars will have her crawling gratefully back to whatever shithole she came from.

Another comment followed: Poor thing. She's been played and has no idea. His leg was never even hurt—he hired a special effects artist to fake the whole thing.

A hundred thousand dollars. The words burned my eyes.

For three years, to buy the imported medicine that was supposed to heal his leg, I sold my rare blood type on the black market. My arms were a roadmap of needle marks. I lost my hair in clumps from the constant blood loss.

I thought I was saving the man I loved.

To them, I was just a joke. A bet. A convenient tool to sidestep an arranged marriage.

My phone lit up. It was a message from Heath.

Holly, my leg feels a lot better today. The Capo said I did a good job—he might promote me. As soon as I have enough saved, we'll move somewhere better and get married.

He followed it with a photo. He was wearing blood-stained gloves, a one-dollar burger clenched between his teeth.

I stared at the photo, my eyes dry. I didn't cry. I dialed Sal Gallo's number.

"Sal, take me to the estate. Tell the Don I'm ready to take my place in the family."

At three o'clock that afternoon, I sat in the study of the Hawthorne estate and signed the final power transfer documents.

The family's Consigliere stood beside me, respectfully handing me a file.

"Miss Hawthorne, the Valachi family is facing a massive financial deficit. They are heavily dependent on our arms shipments through the docks. Without our support, they'll be devoured by rivals within a month."

I flipped through the file, my fingertip brushing over Heath Valachi's name.

"Inform all the Capos. Cut off all cooperation with the Valachi family," I said, closing the folder, my voice steady.

The Consigliere paused for a moment, then nodded. "Understood. However, the Valachi family is hosting a return banquet tonight at The Grand Palazzo Hotel. The Don of the family personally sent an invitation, hoping for a Hawthorne representative to attend."

"The Don will not be attending. I will go in his place."

I stood and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the city sprawled below.

Heath Valachi, since you love games so much, let's play a real one.

That evening at seven, a stylist dressed me in a dark green haute couture gown. Around my neck, I wore the Hawthorne family heirloom—a cascade of emeralds.

Staring in the mirror at the cold, striking woman before me, I could hardly recognize the girl who once ate stale bread in a basement.

I picked up a deep red lipstick and slowly, deliberately, painted my lips.

The game was about to begin.