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.