(Amelia's POV)

The pain was a dull, constant ache, a reminder of the crash. I lay in the sterile hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiny holes in the acoustic tiles. Each one felt like a missing piece of my soul.

The door creaked open. I didn't bother turning, expecting another nurse with more pills or a doctor with more questions.

"Eva? Oh my god, Eva!"

The voice wasn't a nurse's. It was familiar, warm, and laced with a panic that made my heart clench. I turned my head slowly on the stiff pillow.

Sofia Valenti stood in the doorway, her face pale, her usually perfectly styled hair slightly disheveled, as if she'd been running her hands through it. She looked like she'd just flown in from somewhere—a long, expensive coat was draped over her arm, and a designer suitcase stood by the door.

She rushed to my bedside, her eyes wide with horror as she took in the bandages, the IV, my general state of wreckage. "I just got back to the country. I heard you were in an accident. The doctors... they said you were hurt. I was so scared!" Her voice broke on the last word.

Seeing her, my best friend, the one person in this world who felt like family, broke the dam I'd built around my emotions. A sob I didn't know I was holding back escaped my lips. The tears came then, hot and silent, streaming down the sides of my face into my hair.

Sofia didn't hesitate. She sat on the edge of the bed, carefully, and gathered me into a hug. I clung to her, burying my face in the soft wool of her sweater, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume. It was the smell of safety, of a life before Lorenzo, of a friendship that had somehow survived the poison of his world.

We stayed like that for a long time, until my tears subsided into shaky breaths. She pulled back, her own eyes glistening, and brushed the hair from my damp forehead. "Shhh, it's okay. I'm here now. You're going to be okay."

She fetched a cup of water from the bedside table and held the straw to my lips. I drank, the cool water soothing my raw throat. After I'd settled back, she took my hand, her grip firm.

"Tell me everything," she said, her voice soft but insistent. "And don't you dare leave anything out. How have you really been these past few years? Did my brother... did he treat you well?" She searched my face, her gaze sharp and knowing. "And what about this boyfriend you mentioned in your letters? The one you said made you happy? When do I get to meet him? I need to vet him properly. If he's not good enough for you, I won't allow it."

The questions, so full of innocent concern, were like salt in my wounds. My face must have crumpled, because Sofia's expression shifted from concern to dawning horror.

"Eva?"

"The boyfriend..." I began, my voice a ragged whisper. I looked away from her, out the window at the grey, uncaring sky. "There is no boyfriend. We... we broke up."

Sofia was silent for a moment, processing. "Oh, honey," she finally said, her voice thick with understanding and pity. "I'm so sorry. But you know what? It's for the best. If he couldn't see how amazing you are, he wasn't worth it. There are plenty of other men out there. Better men. I know loads of them. I'll introduce you to all of them!"

Her forced cheerfulness was a well-intentioned lie, and we both knew it. There were no "better men" in our world. There were only men like her brother.

Before I could respond, the hospital room door was shoved open with a force that made the walls vibrate. Lorenzo stood there, his face a thundercloud. His eyes swept over the scene—Sofia on my bed, holding my hand, my tear-streaked face—and his scowl deepened.

"Introduce her to who?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that filled the small room. "Absolutely not. The men you know, Sofia, are all spoiled, frivolous playboys. None of them are suitable."

Sofia immediately bristled, turning on him like a protective lioness. "They are not all playboys! Don't you dare tar everyone with the same brush!" She stood up, facing him, her hands on her hips. "And since when do you get a say in who I set my best friend up with? This is none of your business!"

Hearing this, a flash of pure, unadulterated irritation crossed Lorenzo's face. "I said no, and that's final," he bit out, his control visibly fraying. "Feelings can't be forced. Stop playing matchmaker. You'll only lead her to more disappointment."

"Feelings can't be forced."

The irony of him saying that to me, after everything, was so profound it was almost laughable. A silent, bitter laugh echoed in the hollow cavity of my chest.

I reached out and squeezed Sofia's hand, pulling her attention back to me. I gave her a small, tired shake of my head. "Don't," I tried to convey with my eyes. 'It's not worth it.'

I then looked calmly at Lorenzo. "Sofia was just joking, Mr. Valenti," I said, my voice flat, devoid of the emotion that had been there moments before. "Was there something you needed?"

Seeing that I was stable—alive, breathing, no longer actively dying—Lorenzo seemed to relax a fraction, the immediate crisis averted. He instinctively started to say he'd come to see "me", to check on "me", but the words changed before they left his mouth, replaced by a more convenient, distant truth.

"Nothing important," he said, his gaze flicking away from mine. "Sofia heard about your accident and came straight here from the airport. I'm here to take her home." A brief, almost imperceptible pause. "And to check on the situation."

"The situation." That's what I was. A situation.

"Alright, brother," Sofia said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll be home tonight. You can go now." She made a shooing motion with her hand. "Eva is badly hurt. The last thing she needs is you looming over her and giving her more work."

She practically pushed him out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him and leaning against it with a sigh of exasperation.

The room felt instantly lighter, the oxygen returning.

"God, he's insufferable," she muttered, coming back to my bedside. Her anger faded as she looked at me, replaced by a deep, worried sadness. "Don't mind him. He can be a real ass, but... he does care, in his own twisted way. The nurses told me you were critical when they brought you in. That it was Lorenzo who pulled strings, called in specialists, made sure you got the best care possible. He was here all night."

For a single, fleeting second, his words sparked a tiny, pathetic ember in the ashes of my heart. He had done that? He had fought for my life?

But the clarity returned almost instantly, cold and brutal. Him pulling strings was just him not wanting a messy death on his conscience. It was about control, not care. If it had come down to a choice between my life and Isabella's comfort, I knew with absolute certainty which one he would have chosen.

So, I harbored no more illusions. I offered Sofia a small, bleak smile. "I'm just another asset in his organization. It's his responsibility to keep his assets functional."

Sofia looked like she wanted to argue, but the bleak truth in my eyes stopped her. She sat back down, and we sat in silence for a while, the only sound the steady beep of the heart monitor, a machine keeping time on a heart that was already broken.

(Amelia's POV)

The sterile quiet of the hospital was a temporary reprieve. A week later, I was discharged, the memory of the crash a fresh scar on my mind. The doctors warned me to take it easy, to let my body heal. But the Valenti machine didn't stop for broken parts. It just expected them to be replaced or repaired.

I returned to the compound on a Monday morning. The air felt different. Thinner. Every glance from the other family members seemed to carry a mix of pity and morbid curiosity. They'd all heard about the banquet and the subsequent crash. I was no longer just the capable Amelia Evans; I was the woman the Don had allowed to be publicly accused and humiliated for his girlfriend's amusement.

I kept my head down. I did my work. My interactions with Lorenzo were now strictly limited to typed memos and emails routed through his underboss. He didn't summon me. I think the cold finality in my eyes after the crash had unsettled him. He didn't know how to handle this version of me—the one that didn't cry, didn't plead, just looked at him with empty eyes.

The fragile peace lasted exactly one week.

My desk phone rang, the internal line flashing with the extension I'd come to dread: his private line. I let it ring three times, steeling myself, before picking up.

"Amelia. My office. Now."

The connection died. No pleasantries. No request. A command.

I walked in to find him standing by his desk, already pulling on his suit jacket. Isabella was there, draped over one of the visitor's chairs, looking bored and beautiful.

"I have a meeting with the Commission," Lorenzo said, not looking at me as he adjusted his cuffs. "Isabella wants to go shopping. You'll accompany her."

My blood ran cold. "Mr. Valenti, I have the quarterly financial reports to—"

"I wasn't asking," he cut me off, his voice sharp. He finally glanced at me, his gaze impersonal, as if assigning a task to a piece of equipment. "Keep her company. See to her needs. Carry her bags."

He walked over to Isabella, bent down, and kissed her forehead. "I won't be long, 'cuore mio'."

"Don't be," she pouted, then flashed him a brilliant smile.

The moment the door closed behind him, her smile vanished. She looked me up and down, a predator sizing up wounded prey.

"Let's go," she announced. "And don't look so miserable. You're lucky to get out of this dreary place."

The shopping trip was a new form of torture. We went to the most exclusive boutiques, places where Isabella was treated like royalty. I followed behind her, my arms increasingly laden with shopping bags.

In one high-end boutique, she picked out a garish, ruffled pink dress. "Here," she said, thrusting it at me. "Try this on. I think it would be hilarious on you."

"I'm not here to shop for myself, Miss Isabella."

"Nonsense! Consider it a gift. Go on, try it. Or should I call Lorenzo and tell you're being difficult?"

The threat was clear. I took the dress and went into the changing room. It was several sizes too big, the ruffles overwhelming my frame. I looked ridiculous.

When I stepped out, Isabella burst into laughter, pulling out her phone. "Oh, perfect! Smile!" She took several pictures, her laughter ringing through the store. "You look like a drowned poodle! I'm sending this to Lorenzo. He needs a good laugh."

The humiliation burned, but I stood there, motionless, until she was done.

This pattern repeated. She forced me to try on more absurd outfits—a hat with a giant feather, shoes several sizes too large—snapping pictures each time, her mockery a constant, sharp sting.

After hours of this, we were walking through a less crowded, upscale arcade, my arms full of her actual purchases, my spirit thoroughly crushed. Isabella was ahead of me, complaining about the quality of the stores.

It happened in a blink.

Men emerged from a side alley, moving with swift, brutal efficiency. They weren't ordinary thugs; they moved like trained enforcers from a rival family. One clamped a hand over Isabella's mouth, dragging her back. Another grabbed me, his grip like iron.

We were shoved into a waiting van. The door slid shut, plunging us into darkness. The van sped away.

"Lorenzo will have you all killed for this!" Isabella screamed, her bravado laced with panic.

One of the men, his face obscured by a mask, backhanded her across the face. "Shut up."

My mind, however, was racing. In the struggle, my phone had fallen from my pocket into one of the shopping bags. My hands were not bound. As the men focused on a sobbing Isabella, I managed to slip my hand into the bag, feeling for my phone.

With practiced, silent movements, I unlocked it and pressed the emergency speed dial—a direct line to Lorenzo's secure phone. I didn't speak, I just let the line stay open, a silent beacon.

We were taken to a warehouse. They dragged us out and forced us to our knees. The leader, a tall man with a cold demeanor, stood before us.

"Lorenzo Valenti has been a thorn in our side for too long," he said. "Let's see how he likes choosing."

The warehouse door burst open. Lorenzo stood there, flanked by four of his best men, guns drawn. His eyes were pure fury, scanning the room until they landed on Isabella, then on me.

"Let them go, Alessi," Lorenzo snarled. "This is between you and me."

The leader, Alessi, laughed. "I don't think so, Valenti. Here's the deal. You can take one. The other stays with us. Choose. Now. Or my sniper in the rafters puts a bullet in both their pretty heads. Try me. See if your gun is faster than his bullet."

Lorenzo's gaze snapped between Isabella and me. Isabella was weeping openly, "Lorenzo, please! Save me! You have to save me!"

His eyes met mine. I saw the conflict, the agony, for a fleeting moment. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

"I'm taking her," Lorenzo said, his voice gravelly but firm, pointing his gun at Alessi. "I'm taking Isabella. Release Amelia, or this ends badly for everyone."

Alessi just smiled. "Your choice is made." He nodded to his men. They shoved Isabella towards Lorenzo. One of his men grabbed her and pulled her behind their protective line.

Lorenzo's eyes locked with mine for one last, heart-stopping second. I saw a flicker of something—pain, regret, maybe—but it was too late. He had chosen. He turned, shielding Isabella with his body, and began backing away with his men, leaving me on my knees.

As the warehouse door closed, sealing my fate, Alessi walked over to me. He reached down and pulled off his mask.

It was Matteo Rossi, the son of the Rossi family Don, a man known for his cunning and ambition.

He looked down at me, a strange, triumphant smile on his face. 'The bet between us is won. It's time to fulfill our wager.' He extended his hand to me.

I wiped the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. I placed my hand in his. 'Fine.'

...

Lorenzo burst out of the warehouse, his arm locked around a sobbing Isabella. His men immediately formed a tight protective circle, weapons trained on the warehouse entrance.

"Get her to the car! Now!" Lorenzo barked, shoving Isabella toward his most trusted guard, Marco. "Get her safe!"

"Lorenzo! Where are you going?" Isabella shrieked, her voice raw with panic as she clung to his sleeve. "Don't leave me!"

His eyes, wild and desperate, scanned the warehouse door. "I'm going back for Amelia!" he roared, turning on his heel, his gun raised as he prepared to charge back into the den of his rivals. The image of her kneeling on the concrete floor, her gaze meeting his one last time, was burning a hole in his mind.

But just as his muscles coiled to move, his phone vibrated insistently in his pocket. He ignored it, taking a step forward. It vibrated again, a harsh, urgent buzz.

Cursing, he yanked it out, intending to shut it off, but his thumb froze over the screen. It was a message from an unknown, encrypted number.

His blood ran cold. With a sense of impending doom, he opened it.

A photo loaded. Grainy, dark, but horrifyingly clear. Amelia's face, bruised and bloodied, one eye swollen shut. Her lips were parted in what looked like a final, silent scream.

The image was captioned with a single, brutal line: 'She's gone. Her last words were that she wished she'd never met you.'

Lorenzo's face drained of all color. The world tilted on its axis. "No..." The word was a ragged, disbelieving whisper. "AMELIA!"