When I came to again, the sharp sting of antiseptic filled my nostrils. I frowned, the smell alone enough to make my stomach turn.

I struggled to sit up, but Rocco's voice cut through the silence before I could manage it. "You're hurt. Rest. What are you squirming around for?" A pause, then a sigh heavy with irritation. "You never make anything easy."

I clenched my fingers into the bedsheet. "And whose fault is it that I ended up like this?"

Rocco's expression froze for a split second before hardening over. "You brought this on yourself. Don't blame anyone else."

His words drove through my chest like a blade, buried themselves deep in my heart. The pain stole every word I might have said.

When I stayed silent, he opened his mouth to speak again, but a shrill ringtone cut him off.

He answered, and just like that, his voice softened without him even seeming to notice.

"Gianna... yeah... I'll pick some up for you on my way over..."

He hung up and the warmth vanished, replaced by ice. "Gianna is being generous this time. She's not pressing charges. Her feast day celebration is in two days. Don't show your face there."

Two days. That was exactly when I'd planned to leave.

I lowered my gaze and said nothing.

The moment Rocco walked out, my phone buzzed with a text from Gianna.

Don't kid yourself into thinking Rocco actually cares about you. He's planning to propose to me at my feast day gala. You're welcome to come watch, of course, but he'd really rather you didn't.

I turned off the phone and stared out the window at the blue sky and drifting clouds. My mind pulled me back to the day Rocco had proposed to me.

After I'd said yes, he'd lifted me off my feet and spun me around, laughing, again and again. He'd even had fireworks set off over the Marchetti estate for nine straight nights to celebrate.

Back then, he'd been so happy he wanted the whole world to know I was his.

But after that... everything changed. The compound was the same. The man was not.

The next day, I was discharged and went home. I punched in the gate code at the side entrance, and the panel flashed red. Incorrect password.

I tried again. And again. Each time the same cold rejection blinked back at me, until the system froze me out entirely.

That code, the one my fingers had entered thousands upon thousands of times, now told me I didn't belong here.

I remembered the day I'd first moved into this house. Rocco had taken my hand, and together we'd set the password.

"Just in case a certain someone forgets," he'd said with a grin, "I picked the day we got together."

That date was also my birthday. There was no way I'd gotten it wrong.

Yet the alarm kept blaring, each beep a slap across my face.

I was still standing there, frozen, when the door swung open from inside.

Gianna stood in the doorway wearing my silk nightgown. She yawned, slow and lazy, as if she'd just rolled out of bed. One of Rocco's soldati was visible behind her in the hallway, eyes averted, jaw tight with the discomfort of a man who knew what he was seeing but had been ordered not to care.

Then she swept her hair to one side, deliberately baring a neck mottled with hickeys. Her eyes glittered with satisfaction she didn't bother to hide.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sweetie. Rocco brought me home last night, and I threw a little fit, so he changed the code." She tilted her head, lips curling. "Guess he forgot to tell you."

There wasn't a shred of guilt on Gianna's face. If anything, she looked pleased with herself, watching me like she was waiting for me to lose it.

But I just stared at her, expressionless. I didn't say a word.

Gianna rolled her eyes, bored by my lack of reaction, and stepped aside to let me through. A nasty smile curled at the corner of her lips. "Watch your step, sis. Wouldn't want you to throw out your back."

My gaze dropped. I caught her foot sliding out to trip me.

Every humiliation, every degradation I'd swallowed over the past few days surged through me at once. I lifted my foot and brought it down hard.

"Ahhh!"

Gianna shrieked and crumpled to the marble floor, clutching her foot.

Rocco came rushing down the staircase, still fastening his cufflinks. "What happened? Gianna, what's wrong—"

Before I could get a word out, Gianna beat me to it. "I was being nice and opened the door for her, and she didn't even appreciate it. She stomped on my foot on purpose!"

Rocco's face went black. He didn't ask a single question. "Serafina. Apologize."

Again.

No questions asked. Just apologize.

I looked at Rocco in silence.

It didn't matter what I said. He would never believe me. So I said nothing at all.

Rocco's jaw tightened. "Looks like you don't need those legs of yours."

The words had barely left his mouth before two soldiers stepped forward, one on each side, pinning me in place.

A third raised a baton and brought it down on my kneecap. The pain was blinding. My legs buckled and I hit the floor, cold sweat pouring down my face. I bit down so hard my teeth nearly cracked, but I refused to make a sound.

Something in my silence set Rocco off. His voice turned brutal. "Fine. You want to play tough? Let's see just how tough you really are."

He ordered the soldiers to throw me into the cold room.

The Marchetti compound had one beneath its east wing. A refrigerated chamber originally built for storing contraband shipments that couldn't see daylight. No wife of any Don in any Family had ever been locked inside one. Until now.

Rocco stood at the heavy steel door, his eyes colder than anything behind it.

"Stay in there and cool off, Serafina. You can come out when you're ready to admit you were wrong."

The cold ate through my skin, my muscles, my bones. I could feel my body temperature dropping, degree by degree.

I didn't want to die in here.

I was so close. So close to getting out.

I tried to call for Rocco, but my throat wouldn't produce a sound.

When I opened my eyes again, I was tied to a bed.

Rocco stood beside it in a tailored tuxedo, his expression glacial.

"Tonight is Gianna's feast day celebration. I won't let you ruin it."

"So your solution is to tie me up like a prisoner?"

I stared at him in disbelief.

A sharp, hollow ache bloomed behind my ribs.

Rocco didn't deny it. All he said was, "Be good. Once tonight is over, I'll make it up to you."

He turned to leave. I called out before he reached the door.

"Rocco. You promised me once that you'd give me a property. Do you remember?"

His body went rigid for a split second. His knuckles whitened around the door handle, though I don't think he noticed. Then he turned back to face me. "I remember. Have you decided which one?"

I nodded quickly. "Yes. I already drafted the paperwork. It's in the second drawer of this nightstand."

"Just sign it, and I promise I won't cause any more trouble. Deal?"

Rocco didn't think twice. He pulled the documents from the drawer, scrawled his signature, and set them back on the nightstand.

He never noticed the signed dissolution papers and the territory-transfer agreement tucked in with them.

He didn't even glance up. "Done. Remember what you said."

Then he turned and walked out.

The tuxedo disappeared through the doorway. His footsteps faded down the corridor, past the soldier posted at the landing, and then there was nothing but silence and the distant sound of cars pulling up to the estate for Gianna's celebration.

Ten minutes after the door closed, I pulled out the razor blade I'd hidden and began sawing through the ropes, strand by strand.

My thumb pressed against the inside of my left ring finger. The skin was bare. The band was already off. The cost was already calculated.

The moment I was free, I called a moving crew and told them to pick up the boxes I'd packed days ago.

At the same time, I grabbed the signed dissolution agreement and the other documents, tracked down the paparazzo, collected every photo he'd taken over the past few days, and went straight to a consigliere outside the Marchetti network. I handed over everything.

I booked passage to Thornridge, climbed into the back seat of a waiting car, and pulled the second burner phone from my coat.

Rocco had given it to me.

Back when he wanted to make sure he could always reach me, that I'd never be beyond his call again.

I didn't need it anymore.

I snapped the SIM card in half and tossed it out the window.

Rocco Marchetti, I hope we never cross paths again.

Marchetti territory. I never wanted to come back.