Claire POV

The Professor's voice came through the phone speaker, calm and measured—a stark, grounding contrast to the wreckage of my life.

"We are pleased you have decided to join the institute, Claire," he said, his tone unwavering. "Your conditions will be met. You have my word."

Less than an hour later, an encrypted email appeared on my screen. It contained an acceptance letter from an elite, untouchable medical institute in Europe, along with a referral to a highly secure private hospital for oncology patients.

I stared at the glowing screen. A cold, hard resolve settled in my chest like a block of granite. I was going to smuggle my dying mother out of the country with me, far from the Syndicate's suffocating grasp.

Pocketing my phone, I knew a return to the compound was unthinkable. I trudged instead through the freezing rain to a neutral, twenty-four-hour urgent care clinic on the edge of the city's neutral zone to have the lacerations on my hands and arms seen to. The glass from the Ming vase had cut deep.

I sat in a stupor on the edge of the metal treatment bed while an exhausted night nurse carefully picked jagged shards of porcelain from my skin with a pair of tweezers.

Without warning, the clinic's flimsy wooden door was kicked inward, rebounding violently from the wall. Luca had tracked my burner phone.

Luca strode in, and the temperature of the small room seemed to plummet. He dismissed the terrified civilian nurse with a sharp jerk of his chin. She scurried out, trembling visibly.

In two strides, he closed the distance between us and his fingers clamped around my injured arm. Pain flared, white-hot, shooting straight to my shoulder.

"You will donate blood to Elena," he demanded, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped beneath his skin. "She lost blood because of your unhinged little stunt."

I tried to wrench my arm back, but his grip was like iron. He was a Don, a man trained to kill. I was merely a medical student.

"Let go of me," I warned, my voice eerily calm despite the agony radiating through the limb.

He sneered, tightening his hold until I thought the bone would snap. "Walk to the blood-draw room, Claire. Now."

Instead of complying, I leaned forward and sank my teeth hard into his forearm. I bit down with every ounce of strength I had, tasting the sharp, metallic tang of his blood soaking through his fine wool shirt.

Luca cursed and yanked his arm back, stepping away to inspect the bleeding crescent of the bite mark.

But before I could slide off the bed to flee, he lunged forward again. He gripped the back of my neck, his rough fingers twisting in my hair. He yanked me flush against his hard, unyielding chest and crashed his lips onto mine.

It was no kiss, but an act of possession—a bruising, desperate attempt to grind my defiance into dust.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips moving against mine.

"I will take you to my bed after I am made Don," he murmured, his breath hot and ragged against my skin. "Just save Elena today. Be a good girl, and I will give you what you have been begging for."

Bile rose in my throat, my entire body recoiling from the grotesque bargain he was offering.

Summoning every last ounce of strength, I shoved both hands hard against his chest, breaking his suffocating hold.

Without a second thought, I swung my arm and delivered a stinging, open-handed slap across his face. The sound cracked like a whip in the sterile, quiet room.

Luca's head snapped to the side. A vivid red mark bloomed at once on his pale cheek. He slowly, deliberately turned his head back to me, his dark eyes swirling with a lethal promise.

"As of this moment," I declared, my voice fractured but entirely steady, "whatever I felt for you is ash."

Luca scoffed, a dark, mocking sound. He reached for me again, seizing my wrist to drag me toward the door. "You are throwing a tantrum. Let us go."

Suddenly, the clinic door swung open again. The senior Syndicate doctor stepped in, holding a metal clipboard. He took one look at the charged scene and frowned.

"Sir," the doctor intervened, his voice respectful but professionally firm. "Close-blood transfusions between half-siblings carry a lethal risk of Graft-versus-Host Disease. It could kill Elena. We have blood bags in storage."

Luca froze. He looked sharply at the doctor, then slowly back at me. As the medical reality settled, he finally released my arm. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression hardening to stone, and walked out of the room without another word.

I sank back onto the treatment bed, staring blankly at the water-stained ceiling panels.

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. Eighteen years of blind devotion. Three years of bartered dignity, playing the fool to keep him alive. And it had all amounted to nothing.

I closed my eyes, forcing my mind to pivot from the wreckage of my heart and focus on survival. I remembered a hushed conversation with my mother from months ago. She had known Vincenzo was unfaithful. She had known the lethal risks of The Family. Anticipating the worst, she had secretly transferred all her hidden offshore assets and clean accounts into my name.

I had the money. I had the acceptance letter. I had a way out.

My knuckles had gone white from strain, the tendons in my wrist spasming so that my thumb kept missing the icons on the screen, but I booked a one-way flight out of the country. I deliberately selected the exact date of Luca's official swearing-in ceremony. I wanted to be gone the very moment he took the throne—leaving behind nothing but a ghost.

Leaving the clinic behind, I rushed straight to the city's premier oncology ward. I met in private with the head administrator, ruthlessly finalizing the complex, expensive details for a covert international medical transfer for my mother.

By the time I left his office, it was done.

I walked down the quiet, dimly lit hospital corridor and stopped outside my mother's room. I peered through the small glass window in the heavy door. She was sleeping, her face alarmingly pale and sunken against the white pillows, the steady hiss of the ventilator breathing for her.

I covered my mouth with both hands to choke back a sob. My knees gave way, and I slid down the cool plaster of the wall until the cold linoleum met my back.

I wept silently, my shoulders shaking with the force of it, terrified to make a single sound. I could not risk waking her—I could not let her see the dark, ugly bruises already blooming on my arms.

I did not return to the Rossi estate until late that night.

The sprawling mansion was dark. The housekeeper informed me in a whisper that Vincenzo and Elena had not returned. They were out celebrating somewhere in the city, toasting their victories.

I walked alone up the grand staircase, surrounded by a hollow, peaceful silence.