Cassio stared at me, momentarily confused by my compliance.

But he quickly lost interest in me.

The woman had used the moment Ella pretended to rise to place her small, worn leather bag firmly on the first-class seat.

Cassio’s expression darkened instantly.

He grabbed the bag and hurled it to the carpeted floor of the cabin.

“What the hell is your problem? Did you not hear a word I said? My friend is pregnant! Can’t you show some basic decency? You’re pathetic!”

The woman looked at her bag on the floor, distress clear on her face. Her voice trembled.

“That… that bag has a special bottle of olive oil from my husband’s family grove in Sicily. It’s for him. You’ve broken it!”

She bent stiffly to open the bag.

The sharp, pungent smell of high-quality, unfiltered olive oil mixed with shattered glass filled the immediate space.

The dark green oil was already seeping through the fabric, creating a slick, fragrant puddle.

People nearby recoiled, covering their noses.

Ella took one look, turned, and made a theatrical gagging sound.

Cassio, seeing her reaction, kicked the bag further down the aisle.

“So it’s broken. Big deal. It wasn’t worth much anyway. I’ll pay for it. And for your seat.”

He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket—five hundred-dollar bills—and threw them into the spreading oil slick.

The woman, her movements slow and pained, carefully picked each bill out of the oil.

She wiped them clean on her simple dress and placed them on Ella’s fold-down tray table.

“Young man, I don’t want your money. I want my seat.”

“I had knee surgery last month. I cannot stand for long. My husband had his men work for three days to get me this specific seat. I am not trading it.”

Ella looked at the oil-stained bills with utter disgust.

She gave another dry heave, used a tissue to push the money off the table onto the floor, and clutched Cassio’s arm.

“Just forget it, Cass. I don’t want to sit there anymore. It’s filthy and causing such a scene…”

She started to stand up again.

“Ella, no. You sit. Right now.”

Cassio’s voice was soft as he pressed her back down. Then he turned his fury on the woman.

It was immediate and volcanic.

He seized the front of her dress, his face inches from hers.

“You had surgery? Prove it! You’re just a bitter old woman who doesn’t want to give up her seat to someone who needs it! What, never had kids of your own so you’re jealous? Where’s your humanity?!”

A flight attendant and a few passengers tried to intervene.

“Ma’am, please, maybe just let the young lady sit? She’s expecting.”

“It’s a long flight. Can’t we all just be reasonable?”

I remembered. In my last life, at the arrivals gate, I’d seen this woman walking with a pronounced, careful limp.

She was telling the truth.

An image flashed in my mind: last year, at the hospital with my own mother, a stranger offering her a seat.

My resolve hardened.

I didn’t stop Cassio this time. But my seat was mine to give.

I took off my headphones and gestured to the woman.

“Signora, come. Sit here.”

She shook her head vehemently.

But I stood, took her arm, and guided her firmly into my aisle seat in row 28.

“Sit. I’ve been sitting too long anyway. Rest. I’ll tell you if I get tired.”

The woman looked up at me. Tears, held back for so long, finally spilled over.

She wiped her oil-smeared hands on her dress again and grasped mine.

“Signorina, I… I have no money to thank you. But this kindness… my husband. He will know how to thank you properly when we land.”

I gave her a small, reassuring nod.

Then I turned and walked toward the back galley.

Partly so she wouldn’t feel obligated to get up.

Mostly because I couldn’t stand another second of watching Ella’s performance.

I had given up my seat.

I thought, even with Ella’s dramatics, that would be the end of it.

But barely an hour into the flight, a fresh wave of raised voices came from the front cabin.

Before I could process it, Cassio was striding down the aisle toward the galley.

He found me and grabbed my wrist, his grip like a vise, pulling me back to the seat area.

“Serena. It’s your seat. You decide. Who sits in it? Ella, who is sick? Or this… this peasant?”

I looked at Ella, now installed in my former seat.

She was clutching her stomach, moaning.

“Cass… it hurts… it really hurts…”

Cassio didn’t wait for my answer.

He started shoving the woman—Marta, I’d learned her name was—who was sitting where I’d put her.

“Get up! Are you deaf? She’s in pain! She needs to lie down! Get out!”

Marta winced, rubbing her knee. Her eyes sought mine, questioning.

Cassio saw the look and shoved her harder.

“What are you looking at her for? I’m her boyfriend! What I say goes! Now move, before I make you move!”

In eight years with Cassio, he had never been this aggressively “protective” of me.

Only of Ella.

The memory of his heel coming down on my stomach flooded back.

I stepped forward and pushed Cassio away from Marta with all my strength.

“Who said you speak for me? It’s my seat. She stays. No one is taking it from her.”

Cassio stared at me, stunned.

“Are you insane? She’s a stranger! You’re choosing some random woman over me? Over Ella’s health?”

“Let’s be clear, Cassio. I’m not ‘choosing’ anyone over you. I’m maintaining control of my own property. This seat is mine.”

A nasty, mocking smile twisted his lips.

“Playing word games, Serena? Look at her! She needs to lie down!”

“If she needs to lie down, buy a ticket in a sleeper pod. This is economy. It doesn’t recline that far.”

“Not this again! God, can you stop with the jealous act every time Ella is involved? We’re just friends! Why are you so petty?”

The absurdity was so profound it made me laugh.

“Petty? You are trying to steal a seat I paid for, for your ‘just a friend,’ and I’m the petty one?”

“Cass! The pain… I can’t…”

Ella’s tearful whimper sent Cassio over the edge.

He stopped talking.

With a snarl, he shoved me aside so hard I lost my balance.

My lower back slammed into the armrest of a seat across the aisle. White-hot pain lanced through me.

Cassio didn’t notice. He grabbed Marta by the collar of her dress and literally threw her out of the seat.

She crumpled to the floor with a cry.

Her loose, modest dress rode up.

A brutal, freshly healed surgical scar ran from her knee all the way down to her ankle, stark and angry against her skin.

The impact had clearly hit the exact site of her old injury.

Marta lay curled on the thin airplane carpet, her face a ghastly white.

Sweat beaded on her forehead and fell in heavy drops.

Compared to Ella, who was still moaning but whose cheeks were flushed with perfectly good health, Marta’s agony was terrifyingly real.

Gritting my teeth against the throbbing in my back, I forced myself upright.

I pointed at Marta’s leg and glared at Cassio, my voice rising.

“Cassio, look at her! Look at the scar! She did have surgery! How can you be such a monster?”

“Get out of that seat! Now! Or I’m calling the air marshal!”

I pressed a hand to my aching spine.

“You get up. Go find a flight attendant, get a medic for this woman.”

Remembering his blame from my past life, I added, coldly,

“And while you’re at it, find another seat for Ella.”

Before I could finish, Cassio exploded from the seat.

He lunged at me, grabbed the front of my shirt, and yanked my phone from my pocket.

He threw it to the floor and stomped on it, the screen shattering.

Then his open hand connected with my cheek.

The slap was sharp, loud, and humiliating.

“Serena, I think you’ve forgotten your place! Ella stays right here!”

“As for that stupid cow, I don’t care if she dies!”

Marta, breathing in ragged gasps, managed to push herself up on one elbow.

She looked at Cassio, her voice a pained whisper but steady.

“Young man… we will be landing soon. Please, give me back my seat. My husband… he is meeting me. His temper… it is not good. If he sees me like this, he will be very angry with you.”

Cassio stared at her, then let out a loud, derisive laugh.

It grew louder, more unhinged.

“You think I’m scared? Me? What’s your husband going to do, huh? Slap my wrist? Give me a stern talking-to? I’m shaking!”

“Tell him not to hold back! I’d love to meet him! Let’s see what a farmer from Sicily is really made of!”

“He is not a—”

Cassio didn’t let her finish.

He stepped forward and, with deliberate cruelty, brought his designer loafer down on Marta’s injured calf, right on the scar.

A sickening sound, a muffled tear.

Marta screamed, a raw, animal sound of pure agony.

Blood instantly soaked through her dress and pooled on the carpet.

Cassio leaned down, grabbed her chin, and slapped her face.

“Stop with the ‘he’! What’s he going to do? I’m doing this to his wife right now! Let’s see what he does!”

The plane began its final descent, pressure building in our ears.

As we taxied to the gate at McCarran, I looked out the window.

On the tarmac, flanked by a dozen large, grim-faced men in sharp suits, stood a man scanning the plane doors with intense, focused eyes.

Domenico Accardo.

The Don was waiting.