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.