My remark seemed to prick Julian’s pride. The hint of a smirk that touched his lips was anything but pleasant.

So ambitious. She doesn't know how to bide her time. All that fire, no patience. She won't last in this city. Five years at my side and she thinks she can just leapfrog into the Consigliere’s seat? What does she think this is, a charity?

Success required real value, not just a warm bed next to the heir. The underworld was brutal, not a damn wishing well. Still, she should try again. Next time, if there was a next time, I’d cut the territory cleaner. Give her a piece.

With that thought, he tossed me a bone. "Scarlett, the after-party is in the cigar bar downstairs. You should come."

"No, thank you," I refused coolly. "I'm going home to rest."

Julian frowned. I wasn't the type to refuse a networking opportunity. It was the lifeblood of our business. Before he could dwell on it, Bianca had already taken his arm.

Meanwhile, I called a car. As I slid into the back seat, my gaze swept over Chicago’s glittering skyline with a cold, hollow detachment.

Before I even got home, encrypted notifications were already flooding the family's secure channel: "Julian Valachi," "Bianca Genovese," and "Chicago's New Order." Each entry blazed in blood-red, marking them as top-priority directives.

Julian had a three-year plan in motion—a smuggling network that would lock down the entire West Side docks. And he was eagerly appointing Bianca's brother to lead it. Had I stayed at that party, my expression would have surely twisted into something hideous.

When my phone screen went dark, my own reflection stared back. I looked tired, pale. A stranger.

The moment I closed the app, a text from Julian appeared.

"Don't be difficult. I'm going to be tied up for a while."

I didn't reply, just swiped the notification away. In the dim blue light illuminating my face, I remembered how he had bulldozed his way into my world.

"That Genovese Principessa is the key. I need to win her over. Don't listen to the rumors; it's all for the family. I'm just using her influence. We need this deal, Scarlett. It’s business. When are you going to grow up?"

…

At first, it was, "Who is she?"

Then, it became, "Why her?"

In the end, there was only silence.

As I scrolled through the long, detailed files on Bianca's family, I realized he hadn't even noticed I'd stopped feeding him intel weeks ago.

All that was left was the final, cold proof of his neglect: my last warning—"Target has moved." —left on 'read'.

The breaking point had come three months ago. It all came down to priorities.

That day, Bianca scratched her finger on a ring while trying on jewelry. At the same time, I took a knife for Julian during a shootout at the docks. Her injury was a paper-thin cut that didn't even draw blood; my wound was a gaping slash down to the bone. In the same city, our fates were worlds apart.

Julian's concern for me was a single, curt message: "Is the trouble handled?"

Meanwhile, he was lavishing attention on Bianca, summoning his private doctor for her scratch. He was so worried he joked about cutting off the jeweler’s hands: "Emergency! Who dares to harm my Principessa?"

In the photos from my informant, Bianca sat in the passenger seat of his Bentley, looking exquisitely fragile. And there I was, lying alone in a sterile, unlicensed clinic, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and disinfectant.

I watched Julian trade jokes with his men on the secure comms, my own pleas for backup lost in their banter. His silence was a sharper blade than the one that had cut into my back.

After a sleepless night, my wound wrapped in thick bandages, I went to his office. I found him staring intently at a screen, his brow furrowed over a purebred horse Bianca had taken a fancy to, as if its bloodline was a thousand times more important than my life.

"Hang on, Scarlett. Something’s off with this horse's pedigree."

He didn't even turn to look at me.

I stood outside the bulletproof glass door, watching him pick out a gift for his new prize. Over the next two hours, it dawned on me that even her most trivial whim held more weight in his heart than I ever did.

Framed on the glass door was the Person of the Year award he’d received from the Chicago Tribune last year.

At one point, his right-hand man, Nico, approached me. "Scarlett," he murmured, "Julian's still on the phone with Miss Genovese. It'll probably be another two hours…"

He gauged my reaction before adding, "Why don't you come back later?"

I stubbornly shook my head. "I'll wait for him."

Nico looked troubled.

"You might be a distraction, staying here."

Suddenly, a searing pain shot through me, and my legs gave out. Nico caught me just in time.

The commotion finally drew Julian's attention. He glanced over, his expression one of pure annoyance.

"Please escort the irrelevant person out."

He said it with the casual authority of a man having a piece of trash removed. Then, his gaze snagged on my pale face. His lips seemed to tremble, as if to ask if I was all right.

"Julian, what about that necklace…"

Bianca's delicate, sweet voice purred from the phone, and his attention snapped back to her. The flicker of concern vanished. It had lasted less than a second before dissolving into dust.

The message was clear. Stop the theatrics. Know your place. Get out before he had me thrown out. Once he was done, maybe he’d generously forward me his call log with Bianca as a pittance for my trouble.

The central air conditioning hummed, a monotonous drone. Only a wall of glass separated us. He controlled the temperature, while I shivered in the clashing currents of Chicago's residual July heat and the frigid air from the vent.

I hugged my jacket tighter, a flimsy shield against the cold, and turned for the elevator.

Five years ago, we had clawed our way up from the streets together, vowing to conquer this city.

It seemed I had to accept the painful truth—the man who once fought back-to-back with me was long gone.