For two years, I endured hell in an underground brothel, bleeding to earn the bribe money to save my Mafia Don husband from the electric chair.

But when Cassio finally returned, he didn't come to rescue me.

He marched in with thirty armed enforcers, threw annulment papers on my chest, and announced his new mistress was pregnant with his heir.

The mistress was Camilla, a low-level associate who stole the credit for my sacrifice.

Cassio believed every lie she told, looking at my degrading uniform with pure disgust.

"Sign the papers. You have disgraced the Moretti name enough."

He ignored the whip marks and burn scars covering my ruined body, tossing a stack of cash at my feet like I was trash.

When I tried to buy my freedom with the ten million dollars I had agonizingly earned, he ruthlessly blocked my bid.

He demanded I kneel and pledge loyalty to Camilla, trapping me as their property.

I couldn't understand how the man who once promised to burn the world down for me could be so blind.

I had destroyed my body and my ability to ever carry a child just to secure his freedom.

Yet he was standing here, publicly humiliating me for the woman who secretly orchestrated my torture.

Staring into his cold, unforgiving eyes, my dead heart finally turned to ash.

I calmly invoked the ancient, fatal 'Angel's Drop' trial.

I wrapped the sheer red silk around my wrists and ascended into the dark sky, choosing a shattered death in the freezing harbor over a life with him.

Chapter 1

Serafina POV

I remained on my knees, on the sticky floor of the VIP room, the fabric of my stockings fused to the rough-grained wood by a rival Capo's spilled whiskey. I was cataloging the way the amber liquid seeped cold against my skin when the heavy mahogany doors were thrown open with a force that rattled the glassware on the bar.

The husband for whom I had spent two years bleeding in this underground brothel to evade a federal death sentence strode in. He was flanked by thirty armed enforcers, only to drop annulment papers on my chest and announce that his new mistress was pregnant with his heir.

The music in The Velvet Syndicate died instantly.

Every high-ranking man in the room scrambled to his feet, but the viscous spill of whiskey had soaked through my thin stockings, cementing my kneecaps to the coarse floorboards. I made no move to rise, allowing the muscles in my thighs to begin their slow, cramping protest.

A stillness fell over the room, so profound it seemed to pull the warmth from the air.

Cassio Moretti was supposed to be rotting in a supermax prison. Instead, he stood before me in a bespoke charcoal suit, his presence altering the very density of the room, bending the light and sound toward him as if by gravitational pull.

He was the Dark Don—the man who had slaughtered three rival syndicate bosses in a single night with his bare hands before his empire supposedly crumbled.

His six-foot-three frame radiated a terrifying, suffocating authority. His dark eyes—the same eyes that used to trace the constellations of freckles on my shoulders—now regarded me with a disgust so pure it was a physical force.

"Pick up the pen, Serafina." His voice was a low, lethal rumble that vibrated through the soles of my feet.

I slowly raised my head, ignoring the sharp protest of my patella against the wood.

My sheer, degrading uniform clung to my skin, a stark contrast to the modest, elegant dresses I used to wear as his beloved wife.

I looked at the thick stack of legal papers resting against my exposed collarbone.

"Sign them," he commanded. "Camilla is waiting for me at the estate. She is carrying my child."

The dull thud of the bass from the dance floor below began to climb the floorboards, each beat a hammer against my eardrum. I parted my lips, having forgotten the mechanics of pushing air from my throat.

Camilla Russo.

A low-level associate. The woman who was supposed to be my friend.

Madam Rosa stepped out from the shadows behind Cassio, her face twisted in a cruel, triumphant smile. She ran this illicit club; she was the one who held my leash.

"The Don orchestrated his entire downfall, Serafina," Rosa announced to the silent room. "He wanted to see who would stay loyal when the crown fell."

Rosa walked closer, her heels clicking with the sharp report of a metronome against the floorboards.

"While you were so quick to spread your legs in my club to save your own skin, sweet Camilla went to the Chicago Outfit. She sacrificed her innocence to secure the Don's freedom."

My ears rang with a high-pitched whine that drowned out the pounding of my own heart.

I looked up at Cassio, searching his face for a flicker of the man who once promised to burn the world down to keep me safe.

There was nothing but cold, hard contempt.

He believed it. He believed Camilla saved him.

He did not know about the ten million dollars in blood money I had to earn to bribe the federal judges. He did not know about the basement.

He did not know about the rival enforcers who took turns destroying my body until the back-alley doctor told me I would never be able to carry a child.

I stared at his perfectly polished shoes, the memory of the forced sterilization a white-hot agony behind my eyes.

I remembered biting my tongue until it bled so I would not scream his name and give them the satisfaction of breaking me.

Now, he was standing here, demanding I step aside for a woman who stole my sacrifice.

"Are you deaf?" Cassio snapped, stepping closer. His massive frame towered over me, blocking out the dim club lights. "Sign the papers. You have disgraced the Moretti name enough. Do not make me force your hand."

I reached up and took the papers, my fingers, to my own surprise, not trembling. I had learned how to hide the tremor over the last two years.

I pulled a gold pen from the Capo's jacket pocket beside me, uncapped it with my teeth, and smoothed the papers over my bare thigh.

I pressed the gold nib to the thick parchment, poised to sign away the last vestiges of my former life. But as I watched the compliance in my own eyes, the sheer hollowness of it, the heavy gold pen was knocked from my grip by a force I did not see. His jaw was a knot of white-hot fury.

"Congratulations on your heir, Don Moretti," I whispered, my voice a smooth, practiced, and empty thing. "I will finish signing them when my hands are clean."

Cassio flinched. It was a microscopic movement, but I saw the muscle in his jaw feather.

The formal title I used severed the last invisible string between us.

He snatched the unsigned papers from my thigh, the bones of his knuckles showing stark white.

"Get out of my sight," he growled, turning on his heel.

He stormed out of the VIP room, his enforcers swallowing him in a protective sea of black suits.

The heavy doors slammed shut. The Capos slowly sat back down, murmuring among themselves about the Don's ruthless return.

I stood up, my legs two columns of lead. I walked toward the bar, my only thought to fetch another bottle, to give my hands something to do.

Madam Rosa intercepted me in the narrow hallway. She handed me a glass of amber liquid.

"Drink it," she ordered. "You look pale, and we have paying customers."

I took the glass and swallowed its contents in a single, burning motion, craving any substance that might dull the sharp edges of my new reality. It burned my throat.

Within seconds, the hallway began to tilt. The walls melted into a blurry haze of red velvet and gold trim, and my limbs grew heavy.

Rosa had drugged me.

I stumbled against the wall, my vision swimming.

A heavy hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. It was one of the Syndicate's lowest soldiers; his breath smelled of stale tobacco and cheap beer.

"The Don threw you out like trash," he sneered, pressing me against the wallpaper. He pulled a thick black marker from his pocket. "Strip off the top. I want to write 'Syndicate Whore' right across your chest. Let everyone see what you really are."

I tried to push him away, but my arms felt like wet paper.

He grabbed the collar of my uniform and ripped it down, the cold air of the corridor raising gooseflesh on my skin.

A shadow fell across the garish wallpaper, eclipsing the hallway lights.

The soldier froze.

I blinked through the drug-induced fog to see Cassio standing at the end of the hall, his eyes locked on my exposed skin.

The man who had just declared me dead to him had returned—and the violence in his gaze promised that no one else would touch what he still, despite everything, claimed as his.

Serafina POV

The deliberate tread of Cassio's leather-soled shoes against the corridor's tile was the only sound.

The soldier holding me dropped his hands and scrambled backward, his face draining of all color.

"Boss, I—I was just teaching her a lesson," the soldier stammered, holding his hands up in surrender.

Cassio did not so much as glance at the man.

His dark, unforgiving eyes were fixed on me.

The strength fled my legs, and I found myself sliding down the wall's abrasive surface.

The narcotic Rosa had poured down my throat was pulling me down into a dark, heavy pit.

I slumped against the wall, sliding down until I hit the cold tile floor.

I tried to pull my ripped collar up, but my numb fingers refused to cooperate.

"Bring her to the main hall," Cassio ordered, his voice flat, stripped of all inflection. "Let her face the reality of the world she chose over her loyalty."

Two enforcers stepped forward, their hands clamping onto my upper arms.

They dragged me out of the hallway and into the blinding lights of the main club floor.

The heavy bass of the music pounded against my skull.

The writhing crowd of corrupt politicians, rival bosses, and wealthy associates parted in a wave of immediate, fearful reverence.

Madam Rosa stepped forward from the shadows, her eyes gleaming with malice, and gestured sharply to the enforcers. "Put the traitor on display! Let everyone see her!" Rosa hissed.

They threw me onto the elevated glass stage in the center of the room.

I hit the hard surface with a whimper.

I crawled forward, my vision spinning, trying to find the edge to escape the glaring spotlights.

Below me, Cassio sat in the center booth.

He leaned back against the plush leather, a glass of bourbon in his hand.

His face was a mask of cold stone, but his knuckles were white around the crystal glass.

A corrupt associate from a neighboring territory stepped up to the edge of the stage.

He placed a gold coin at the bottom of a tall, narrow champagne flute.

"Ten grand!" the associate shouted over the thumping bass. "Ten grand if the fallen Mafia Princess can fish the coin out using nothing but her tongue!"

The crowd erupted in jeers and laughter.

I lay against the cold glass, my breathing shallow.

Ten grand.

That was one step closer to the ten million I needed to buy my freedom from Rosa's blackmail.

I dragged my heavy, aching body toward the edge of the stage.

I leaned over the glass flute.

I stuck my tongue into the narrow rim, reaching down for the cold metal.

The crowd roared with sickening approval.

I tasted the bitter, stale residue of alcohol and the metallic tang of the coin.

I pulled it out and dropped it onto the stage with a soft clink.

The associate laughed, tossing a stack of bills onto the glass.

"She is worth every penny," the associate bragged, turning to the men beside him, his eyes raking over my torn collar. "You should see the little crescent moon birthmark she has on her left breast. It is the only pretty thing left on her."

The crystal tumbler in Cassio's hand fractured.

The sharp crack cut through the music, silencing the immediate area.

Bourbon and blood dripped from his clenched fist onto the pristine table.

His eyes, previously cold and detached, ignited with a blinding, terrifying violence.

The possessive instinct of the Cosa Nostra Don, held in check for two years, now broke its chain.

He lunged across the table.

Cassio grabbed the associate by the throat and slammed him backward into a structural pillar.

The sickening crunch of bone echoed over the heavy bass of the club track.

Cassio punched the man in the face.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Blood sprayed across Cassio's crisp white shirt.

"Throw them all out!" Cassio roared at his enforcers, his voice a tremor that shook the very foundations of the room. "Anyone who looks at her loses their eyes!"

The club erupted into chaos as the enforcers began clearing the room.

Cassio climbed onto the stage.

He grabbed me by the waist, lifting me and throwing me over his shoulder with an ease that disregarded my weight entirely.

I pounded my weak fists against his broad back, but he ignored me.

He carried me up the private stairs with a terrifying effortlessness and kicked open the heavy oak door to his executive suite.

He threw me onto the large leather sofa.

I bounced against the cushions, gasping for air.

Cassio locked the door behind him.

He stalked toward me, wiping his bloody knuckles on a silk handkerchief.

"You let them touch you," he hissed, his chest heaving as he loomed over me. "You let them look at you. You broke the ultimate vow."

His gaze snagged on my collar for a fraction of a second, the muscles of his jaw bunching. Then, his hand—smelling of blood and iron—moved with an unhurried certainty, wedging itself into the space between my neck and the sofa's upholstery, the web of his thumb pressing against my jawline.

His grip was tight, but not enough to stop my breathing.

I stared up into his furious eyes.

I remembered Rosa's damp, bloodstained basement.

I remembered the heavy leather belt striking my back until the skin split open.

I remembered Rosa standing over me, telling me that ten million dollars was the only way to bribe the governor and save my husband from the electric chair.

I had dismantled my pride.

I had destroyed my soul.

And I had done it for the man whose hand was now a cage around my throat.

He raised his free hand and slapped me across the face.

The sting was sharp and hot.

My head snapped to the side.

I tasted the familiar metallic flavor of blood inside my cheek.

I turned my head back to look at him.

I smiled.

It was a dark, broken smile.

"Thank you for the punishment, Don Moretti," I whispered.

Cassio froze.

His eyes widened slightly, thrown by my lack of resistance.

I reached up and grabbed the edges of my already ripped uniform collar. I pulled the torn fabric wider, dragging it down just far enough to expose my chest and stomach to the harsh, unforgiving overhead lights. I did not take the garment off, but it was more than enough.

Cassio stepped back, his breath hitching in his throat.

My exposed torso was a canvas of horror.

Thick, raised whip marks crisscrossed over my ribs.

Deep, circular burn scars dotted my stomach.

The smooth, flawless skin he used to worship was gone.

I sat up straight, letting him see every single mark.

"Your punishments are nothing, Cassio," I said, my voice dead, hollowed out by the weight of all he did not know. "I have already survived hell."

His gaze, for one unguarded second, was not the cold stare of a Don passing judgment—but the shattered, desperate look of a man who was beginning to understand that every scar on my body was a receipt for a sacrifice he had refused to acknowledge.

Serafina POV

Cassio stared at the topography of my ruined skin.

All the color drained from his face, leaving him looking like a sculpted ghost carved from ash.

His dark eyes darted from the angry, puckered burn marks on my stomach to the jagged scars running along my ribs.

His chest stopped moving.

His mind, I could see it, was at war with itself—the lies he had believed for two years crashing against the undeniable evidence carved into my flesh. He wanted to look away. Looking away would have been easier. But his eyes kept returning to the scars, as if they were a language he was desperately trying to unlearn.

"Camilla went to the Chicago Boss," he said, his voice tight and uneven with a desperate tremor. "She sold her innocence to secure the truce and my release. She took the punishment meant for our family."

I stared at him for a long, hollow moment.

Then, I started to laugh.

It started as a low chuckle in the back of my throat and grew into a harsh, echoing sound that scraped against the walls of the quiet, luxurious suite.

Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

"A low-level associate manipulated a Mafia war?" I mocked, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. "A girl who used to fetch my coats walked into the Chicago Outfit and demanded a truce? I am a Romano. I am the daughter of a Capo. And you think they gave me a free pass while they tortured a nobody?"

Cassio's jaw clenched so hard I heard the grinding of enamel.

A flicker of deep, unsettling confusion crossed his dark eyes, at war with the lies he had been fed.

He closed the distance in a single stride, his palm landing hard against my collarbone.

"You are lying," he growled, shaking me slightly. "You are violating Omertà by spreading poison against the woman who saved me. Camilla is pure. She is untainted. Look at you."

The unforgiving edge of the mahogany desk met the small of my back, sending a sharp, electric pain up my spine.

Cassio crowded in, pressing his large, muscular frame against mine.

I could feel the heat radiating from his body—a terrifying mix of blinding hatred and raw, undeniable lust.

His hands gripped my waist, his calloused fingers digging into my hips.

He kissed me.

It was not a kiss of love; it was a violent clash of teeth and bruised lips, a punishment meant to assert his dominance.

I did not close my eyes.

I let him take what he wanted, my body rigid and unresponsive under his.

He spun me around, forcing my chest flat against the polished wood of the desk.

He grabbed the back of my uniform and ripped the rest of the fabric down, the sound of tearing seams loud in the tense air.

As my bare, ruined back was exposed to the harsh overhead lights, Cassio stopped dead.

He let out a sound that was half-roar, half-sob.

"Dirty," he spat, his voice trembling with an emotion he could not control.

He grabbed my shoulders and flipped me over so I was facing him again.

He looked down at my face, searching for the girl he used to know.

A single, silent tear slipped from my eye and tracked down my pale cheek.

Cassio stared at that lone tear.

It seemed to burn him worse than any hellfire.

He stumbled backward, staggering as if he had been struck, putting distance between us.

He tore off his tailored suit jacket and threw it at me.

"Cover yourself," he demanded, turning his back to me. "I cannot look at what you have become."

I pulled his jacket over my shivering shoulders.

It smelled of his expensive, woodsy cologne and the sharp tang of gunpowder.

It was a scent that used to mean safety.

Now, it just made me nauseous.

Cassio reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick, heavy stack of cash.

It was banded in black paper—the universal sign of Syndicate blood money.

He tossed it over his shoulder.

The heavy stack hit the desk and slid to the floor, landing at my feet like an insult.

"Take it, Canary," he said, branding me with the degrading street name the club patrons used. "Buy yourself something pretty."

I dropped to my knees and gathered the cash.

I stacked the bills neatly, my movements numb and mechanical.

"Thank you, Don Moretti," I said, my voice perfectly, hollowly submissive.

Cassio did not look back.

He walked to the door, unlocked it, and walked out without another word.

I sat on the floor, clutching the blood money to my chest.

The door clicked shut, sealing my isolation.

A few minutes later, Madam Rosa walked in, her heels clicking against the hardwood.

She looked at the money in my hands and smiled a knowing, predatory smile.

"The other girls downstairs are celebrating for you," Rosa said, leaning against the doorframe. "They think the Don finally took pity on you and threw you a massive severance payout just to get rid of you. Or perhaps they think one of the rival Capos slipped it to you before the massacre downstairs."

I slowly stood up, my joints aching.

I walked over to the small, inconspicuous wall safe hidden behind a vintage painting.

I opened it and tossed Cassio's money inside.

It landed on top of massive, banded stacks of bills I had accumulated over two agonizing years of hell.

I did not tell the other girls that the payout was blood money thrown at me by the husband who had just discarded me.

"I have the ten million," I said, my gaze fixed on Rosa. "I am buying my freedom from the Famiglia."

Rosa crossed her arms, her smile fading into a grim, serious line.

"I will take the payout, Serafina. But money only buys the ticket. If you want to officially leave the Syndicate alive, you have to survive the Underworld Auction tomorrow night."

Survive. The word was almost funny. I had survived two years in her basement. One more night in a room full of the men who had paid to destroy me—what was one more night, when I had already lost everything?