Quinn's POV

I was trapped in a hospital bed, still weak and hollow. My arms throbbed where the IV lines had been, where they'd drawn too much from me, and sitting upright sent the room tilting sideways in slow, nauseating waves. But none of that compared to the wound no physician could stitch closed. I was grieving the loss of my child.

In my confinement, the outside world found ways to reach me anyway. A woman from the Family—someone I'd once shared Sunday dinners with—sent a video without comment. Zane was laughing at some black-tie gala, his hand planted firmly on Nina's waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the silk of her dress. Another video arrived an hour later: Zane feeding Nina a forkful of cake at a private dinner party, leaning close to whisper something against her ear that made her throw her head back in a delighted giggle.

He looked happy. He looked free.

When the hospital finally discharged me, I walked out alone. No one came. Not Zane. Not one of his enforcers. Not even one of the lowest-ranking soldiers in the Montecchio crew, the kind who ran errands and parked cars. Just me, carrying a plastic hospital bag and the awful, crystallized truth that I no longer mattered to any of them.

I didn't want to go back to the estate. Just the thought of those iron gates, that long gravel drive, the cold marble foyer where I'd once believed I was home—it made my skin crawl. But all of my things had been sent back there. My documents. My identification. Everything I needed to disappear. So I had no choice.

Then, because God has a vicious sense of humor, I saw them right outside the maternity wing.

Nina looked radiant and proud, one hand resting on her belly like she was already posing for a family portrait. Zane stood beside her with his palm flat against the small of her back, presenting her to the world as if she were something precious he'd won.

A nurse passed by, her gaze catching on them. She smiled warmly. "Mr. Montecchio, your wife is positively glowing today!"

My stomach twisted into a knot so tight I thought I'd be sick right there on the polished floor. But I didn't correct her. I didn't have the strength. I didn't have anything left.

Instead, I turned. I started to walk away.

"Quinn."

Zane's voice cut through the corridor like a blade drawn across glass, and I froze for a single, involuntary second. My spine went rigid, every muscle locking. But I didn't turn around right away. Of course he saw me. Of course he had to call my name now, when I was trying to dissolve quietly into the background like I'd never existed.

I finally turned, meeting his eyes from across the gleaming floor of the maternity wing. "I didn't follow you. Just so you know—I was discharged. I didn't know you'd be here."

His eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Nina curled herself around his arm.

"Babe, please let her come with us," she said sweetly, her voice dripping with a kindness so manufactured it made my teeth ache. "I feel bad for her. She gave me blood, remember? It's the least we can do."

I almost laughed. Almost.

Zane touched the tip of her nose with his finger, affectionate, indulgent. "You're too kind. Alright."

So I got in the car. Not because I wanted to, but because I had nowhere else to go just yet. My passport, my documents, everything I needed to leave—it was all still locked inside the estate.

In the backseat, I sat in silence. But there, on the leather seat beside me, was a pair of women's underwear stained with something unmistakable. The sight of it hit me like a slap, a sharp sting that lodged itself behind my ribs.

Nina twisted in her seat, tossing me a smirk over her shoulder. "Oh my God, I just realized—my panties are still back here. Can you believe that, babe? After everything we did in this backseat last week?"

She giggled shamelessly, as though we were old friends reminiscing over brunch, not two women chained to the same man.

Zane chuckled, completely unbothered. "You nearly tore the seat stitching."

"Mmm," Nina purred, stretching the sound like taffy. "You weren't complaining when I was grinding on your lap while you were parked outside the estate. Or that time I unzipped you during the long drive out to the docks and kept you nice and distracted."

Zane smirked, eyes fixed on the road as if none of this was out of place. "That's because you make traffic worth it."

"And remember the time you had to pull over because I wouldn't stop using my mouth?" She dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper. "God, you nearly lost your mind."

My stomach churned. I stared out the window at the city scrolling past, jaw locked so tight the muscles burned. My fingers clenched in my lap, nails carving half-moons into my palms until the skin threatened to break.

While they flirted as though I were furniture, I quietly fished my phone from my bag and opened the latest message from Tony. My cousin. My blood. My heart gave a small, traitorous flutter as I read the confirmation I'd been waiting days for.

Below the flight itinerary, he'd written a short message:

Here's another flight schedule, Quinn. Hope you catch this one. The flight is scheduled for tonight at 9 PM.

I smiled to myself. Just barely. Just enough.

I typed a quick reply:

Thank you so much, Tony. I'm sorry for missing the last one.

Almost instantly, the chat bubble appeared with his response:

What really happened that day? You can tell me.

My fingers hovered above the screen. I didn't want to lie to him. Tony had always looked out for me—had always been the one person in this world who treated my safety like it was his own personal responsibility. But if I told him the truth, he'd bring his entire crew down on the Montecchio estate before sunrise, and I didn't want blood spilled because of me. Not yet. Not like this.

So instead, I typed:

I'll explain soon. I just need to get out first.

Because leaving this place was the only thing I wanted anymore. The only thing that still felt possible.

In the front seat, Zane laughed softly, murmuring some half-hearted apology to Nina for forgetting something, even taking the blame with exaggerated charm. But all the while, I could feel his gaze in the rearview mirror, sliding toward me, watching, waiting for a reaction. A flinch. A tear. Anything.

I gave him nothing. Not even a flicker.

That same strange frustration I'd seen in him back at the hospital stirred again behind his eyes—that restless, almost panicked irritation that surfaced whenever I went quiet. He couldn't stand it. Silence from me was something he didn't know how to control.

"Quinn, you've been glued to your phone ever since we got in the car," he snapped, his voice suddenly hard. "Who are you talking to? Someone I don't know?"

"Just reading the news." I didn't even glance up. My eyes stayed fixed on the electronic plane ticket glowing on the screen.

He didn't believe me. I could feel it in the way the air in the car shifted, the way his grip tightened on the steering wheel until the leather creaked. And then, without a word, he reached back and snatched the phone from my hands.

My heart slammed against my ribs—not from fear, but from the sharp, white-hot sting of anger. The sheer audacity of it. I clenched my jaw, fighting to keep the heat from reaching my face, but my fists curled on instinct. So much for respect. So much for the ring I still wore on my finger.

"What's the passcode?"

"It's the date we met, Zane." My voice came out flat and edged, a knife wrapped in silk. "You know, that magical day where I made the worst decision of my life and fell for you? It should be easy to remember, since you were charming for a whole five minutes before turning into a full-time nightmare."

I didn't bother hiding the venom. Let it burn.

Zane exhaled through his nose, irritation already curdling into regret at the guessing game he'd started. He tapped at the screen once. Twice. A third time.

The phone buzzed and flashed red. Locked.

Beside him, Nina rolled her eyes and leaned over with a mockingly sweet voice. "Just let it go, babe. So what if she's on her phone? It's not like she has any friends left. Or dignity." She paused, letting the words land. "I mean, what else can she do now besides text someone who pities her enough to reply?"

She caught my eye in the rearview mirror and winked, her smirk sharp enough to cut glass.

Quinn's POV

When we arrived at the estate, he helped the nauseous, morning-sick mistress up the grand staircase to the master suite and told the kitchen staff to prepare her favorites.

On his way back down, he saw me heading toward the guest wing, dragging my suitcase behind me across the marble floor.

He paused. Then he muttered to the chef without looking at me, "Make two more dishes. The ones Quinn likes. Set three places."

That actually caught my attention. Was that remorse? A flicker of guilt? A weak, pitiful attempt to play house while his mistress slept in the room we once shared?

I didn't know whether to laugh or spit. He couldn't remember the day we met, but sure — go ahead and have the chef whip up my favorite meal. Maybe he thought a plate of grilled rosemary lamb could undo what he did to me. Maybe in his mind, a properly set table at the Montecchio estate still meant family, still meant everything was fine. That the blood oath he'd broken could be mended with a linen napkin and a glass of Barolo.

I clenched my jaw, said nothing, and kept walking.

I stepped into the guest room, closing the door quietly behind me. The silence was heavy, suffocating, as if the walls themselves knew I didn't belong here anymore. The room smelled faintly of cedar and disuse. A crucifix hung above the headboard, its brass Christ figure staring down with hollow pity.

I set my bag down on the edge of the bed and knelt to unzip it. The second the zipper peeled open, I stopped cold.

All of my clothes had been shredded. Torn into ribbons with clean, deliberate cuts. Silk blouses reduced to rags. Cashmere sliced with surgical precision. Damn it. But tucked deep into the lining, right where I'd hidden them, my passport and documents remained untouched.

For a second, I just sat there, stunned. Who would do this?

I didn't have to think long. Of course it was Nina. Who else would be petty and cruel enough to tear my things apart like this? But I had no time to confront her. Not now.

Let her think she'd won. I had more important things to do, like getting out of here alive.

I was crouched by the bed, shoving the last few salvageable items into my bag when I heard the door creak open behind me.

Nina Valducci stood in the doorway, one hand hanging lazily at her side, holding a small black bottle. The kind without a label. Her eyes roamed the room like she was touring a crime scene, her nose practically wrinkling at the guest-wing decor, at the lesser furniture, at the idea that I'd been reduced to this. Then her gaze landed on me, and if looks could kill, I'd already be in a shallow grave somewhere outside the city.

"Wow, Quinn. You're really something." Her voice dripped with theatrical amusement. "After all the humiliation I've put you through in front of every Don and Donna in the region, you still cling to this family like a tick."

She tilted her head mockingly, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe as if this were her house. As if it had always been hers.

"Oh, right. Your grandmother passed last month, didn't she?" Her tone softened into something worse than cruelty. False sympathy. "Now that your only real family is gone, of course you're clinging to Zane like he's your last lifeline."

Then she giggled. A small, bright sound that belonged in a different world, a kinder one.

"Remember how you begged him to fly you out to see her one last time? You know why he didn't?"

She waved her phone, the screen catching the low light.

"Because he promised to take me to the coast that day. We watched the sunset together. This kiss photo? Taken right then."

Her words hit me slowly, like cracks spreading through glass. Each one a fracture, hairline at first, then splitting wider, deeper. The more they sank in, the more something inside me started to boil.

She'd known. She knew exactly what she was doing when she showed me that photo. When she talked about the helicopter. My grandmother. That day I'd begged Zane, on my knees in his study, the mahogany desk between us like a barricade, to let me see her one last time. My nonna. The woman who raised me after my parents were killed. The only person in this world who had loved me without conditions, without transactions, without blood oaths or family politics.

And he chose Nina.

He chose a sunset with his mistress over letting me say goodbye to the woman who gave me everything.

The weight of it all pressed down on me. My jaw clenched, fists tightening at my sides as the room spun with heat and rage. Every survival instinct I possessed stirred, something feral and long-buried growling low inside my chest, just as my self-control snapped clean in two.

"You think this is funny?" I hissed, rising to my feet. My voice came out low and raw, barely human. "You think tearing down what little I have left makes you what? His Donna?"

Nina raised her brows, smiling like a snake sunning itself on a warm rock. Unthreatened. Untouchable. "I don't need to be Donna. I already have everything."

"You have nothing," I snapped, the words ripping out of me before I could stop them. "You're a parasite. A leech clinging to scraps."

Quinn's POV

She shrugged, smug. "Still more than you."

That was it.

I slapped the phone from her hand. It clattered against the marble floor, the screen cracking on impact.

Then I lunged, my hand flying to her throat before I could stop myself.

The bottle slipped from Nina's grip and hit the ground with a hollow clink. The sharp, unmistakable stench of gasoline exploded into the air, hitting my nose like a physical blow. It burned the back of my throat, filling the room in seconds, soaking into the hardwood and the hem of the curtains.

We struggled. Pushing, grabbing, stumbling over each other in the fume-thick air. Then she kicked something. Maybe it was the lighter she'd brought with her. Maybe it was her heel striking the metal edge of the fireplace grate. It didn't matter.

Flames erupted like they'd been waiting for a reason to consume us.

Smoke swallowed the room. My body, still weak from the blood they'd stolen, from the child they'd taken, couldn't keep up. I choked, coughing violently, my legs collapsing beneath me. The heat pressed against my skin like a living thing, and the air turned to poison with every breath.

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was fire crawling across the ceiling of the Montecchio estate like the hand of God reaching down to pass judgment.

"Quinn!"

"Boss! It's too dangerous! You can't go in! Let the men handle it!"

"Out of the way! Quinn's still in there!"

The sound of Zane's voice tore through the smoke. I tried to open my eyes. Had I imagined it? Did he really say my name? Did he still care?

"Zane, I'm here too. Please save me and our baby!"

Nina's voice. High and desperate and perfectly calibrated.

For a moment, I almost believed he was coming for me.

It was pathetic, really. That tiny flicker of hope that burned inside me just from hearing my name fall from his lips. Like I was still someone he'd fight for. Like the man who had once placed a ring on my finger and sworn a blood oath before God and the Family still existed somewhere beneath the monster he'd become.

But of course, reality slapped the fantasy right out of me. He hadn't come running in because he missed me. Not because he cared. He'd stormed in because he wanted to save face. Wanted to be the Don. The protector. The man whose house was always in order.

And when Nina cried out? He didn't even pause. Just scooped her up like she was something precious, something irreplaceable, while I lay there on the floor of his grandfather's estate, smoke choking the last bit of strength out of me, the taste of gasoline and ash coating my tongue.

Half an hour passed.

After making sure Nina Valducci was safe, tucked into the back of an armored car with a blanket around her shoulders and a doctor checking her vitals, he tore through every hallway of the estate to find me.

But I was gone.

I still wasn't sure how I'd made it out. The flames were everywhere, roaring in my ears and stealing every breath from my lungs. Smoke clawed at my throat, filling me with dizzying heat that made the walls swim and the floor tilt beneath me. My vision narrowed to a tunnel of orange and black.

But when instinct finally took over, it wasn't the quiet, obedient wife who saved herself. It was something older. Deeper. The part of me that had been buried under years of deference and silence and swallowed pride. The survival instinct I'd suppressed for so long it had become almost foreign to me.

It surged up like a fist closing around my spine.

I forced myself to my hands and knees, every muscle screaming. My bag. I needed my bag. The documents Rowan Mancini had slipped me, the medical files, the evidence of what they'd done. Without it, I had nothing. I was nothing. Just another discarded wife with a story no one would believe.

I crawled through the smoke, my fingers finding the leather strap by memory more than sight. I grabbed it, clutching it against my chest like a lifeline. Then I dragged myself toward the window.

The glass was already cracked from the heat. I drove my elbow into it, once, twice, and on the third strike it shattered outward. Shards scraped my arms as I hauled myself through the frame, landing hard on the grass outside. My legs buckled. My chest heaved. Blood ran in thin lines down my forearms where the glass had bitten deep.

But I was alive. Barely.

And I didn't look back.

One of the side corridors must have been untouched, or maybe the fire hadn't reached the east wing yet. I dragged myself along the exterior wall, staying in the shadows, lungs screaming, barely able to stand, until I reached the back service entrance. The one the kitchen staff used for deliveries. The one no soldier ever bothered to watch because it led to nothing but a loading dock and a chain-link fence.

I collapsed outside in the cold night air, coughing so hard I thought my ribs would snap. The sky above me was clear and black and indifferent, and the distant wail of sirens told me someone had finally called it in. Not the Family. They'd never involve outsiders. Probably a neighbor. Someone who saw the smoke and didn't know enough to look the other way.

No one saw me. No one followed.

And I didn't stop. Not even when my knees buckled on the uneven pavement. Not even when I had to use street signs and parked cars for support, leaving smears of blood on every surface I touched. I just kept going, one block, then another, then another, because if I stopped, if I let myself get caught again, if I let them drag me back into that house and that life and that slow, methodical destruction of everything I was, I knew I wouldn't survive it this time.

Not physically. Not in any way that mattered.

I found a payphone three blocks from the Montecchio estate. I called a car service. Paid cash. The driver didn't ask questions. In this city, at this hour, a woman with ash in her hair and blood on her sleeves was not the strangest fare he'd ever picked up.

Then I boarded a flight to the Northern Boroughs.

The moment before takeoff, as the cabin lights dimmed and the engines began their low, building roar, a message came in.

From Zane:

Don't have time for games, Quinn. I'm not playing hide-and-seek.

I stared at the screen. The blue glow of his words illuminated my face in the darkened cabin, and for one long, terrible second, I felt the old reflex. The urge to respond. To explain. To apologize for inconveniencing him with my survival.

Then I powered off the phone.

The plane lifted into the darkness, and the city that had been my prison for five years shrank to a scattering of lights below me. I pressed my forehead against the cold window and closed my eyes.

I was done being found.