Chapter 3

Mia clutched her head and screamed, pointing a trembling finger at me through her tears.

"Laurel, I never wanted your spot!"

"Why are you trying to kill me?"

I went for my gun to fire a warning shot and get the room under control, but a barrage of glass bottles and heavy objects started raining down on me.

Through the chaos, I saw Darien draw his weapon.

Pulling Mia tight against his chest, he backed toward the emergency exit, shielded by his personal guards.

I yelled on instinct.

"I didn't do it!"

"Darien—"

He glanced back at me once.

His face was twisted with shock and disappointment.

Then, someone shoved me hard from behind.

My foot caught empty air, and I plummeted off the six-foot platform.

I felt the stomach-dropping fall before I crashed into the angry mob below.

My vision went dark, leaving me with nothing but the blinding pain of the impact and the roar of people cursing my name.

When I came to, the air was thick with the stench of blood and mold.

I was down in the flooded underground cell the Allerton family used for interrogating traitors.

Harsh spotlights beat down on me.

I was strung up from a cold concrete pillar, held there by heavy, crude handcuffs.

A masked man in a long black cloak stepped forward, his tall frame half-hidden in the shadows.

He said.

His voice was low, warped by an electronic modulator.

"The Godfather sent me to question you."

I forced my head up.

He tucked his hand back under his cloak, but not before I caught the flash of a black onyx ring.

Even without the ring, I would have recognized Darien in a heartbeat.

A bitter realization washed over me, and whatever lingering affection I still had for him died.

He held a cigar between his fingers, the ember glowing on and off in the dim light.

His tone was flat and absolute.

"You did it."

I told him.

My eyes watered, and even though my voice was hoarse, I held my ground.

"I didn't."

"If I wanted to ruin her, I'd never stoop to some cheap stunt like leaking a video."

Darien glared at me, his eyes burning with fury, and snapped an order.

"Open the valves."

Guards dumped freezing, muddy water over my head.

The dignity I had carefully built—the same dignity that commanded respect from crime bosses at the negotiating table—was washed away.

I yelled through clenched teeth.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"I have proof it wasn't me!"

Darien grabbed my jaw, squeezing hard enough that pain flared through my skull.

"Mia had a mental breakdown."

"She nearly jumped off the roof of the manor."

"She survived twenty years in the slums."

"Now she wants to feel safe, and you won't be satisfied until you've pushed her over the edge."

I whispered.

I spat a mouthful of grit and gave him a bitter, defeated smile.

"I told you... it wasn't me."

Darien let out a cold scoff and raised a hand.

The guards stepped up, grabbing my head and forcing me to look at the monitor on the wall.

He logged into his admin account on the dark web.

Without hesitation, he uploaded hundreds of my private photos—pictures from when I was severely injured and vulnerable—alongside forged documents claiming I had betrayed the organization.

He dumped it all onto a public forum.

Within minutes, Darien had diverted the heat from Mia's video.

He offered me up as the perfect scapegoat, using the syndicate's vicious playbook to destroy my life.

The comments rolled in.

"I always said Laurel was rotten to the core, like the human traffickers who raised her!"

"Turns out the arrogant assassin is nothing but trash!"

I watched as the hundred and twenty smuggling routes I'd risked my life to secure were shut down.

Once the criminal evidence leaked, the intelligence network and armory I'd spent seven years building were seized and restructured.

Stripped of every resource I had, I wasn't even given the option to surrender.

Intense humiliation and despair left my body numb.

Just before I lost consciousness, Darien stroked my cheek, his fingers calloused.

He kept his voice quiet.

"Laurel, just do as you're told."

"You owe her this."

This was the man who used to shield me from every attack, the one who swore I'd never have to take orders from anyone.

Now, he was tearing my life apart.

In that moment, my last, stupid attachment to him vanished.

Then, I blacked out.

I jolted awake, gasping for air as I bolted upright on a soft, Sicilian velvet bed.

The door opened.

Darien walked over to the bed holding a glass of warm water and a couple of anti-inflammatory pills.

He wore a crisp, handmade shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

The terrifying hostility in his face was gone, replaced by gentleness.

"Laurel, are you hungry?"

He sat down and tucked the blankets around me.

His deep eyes were full of indulgence—as if he wasn't the same man who had stripped away every ounce of my dignity down in the water dungeon.

I stared coldly at his flawless performance as a devoted lover, feeling sick to my stomach.

Fighting through the blinding pain of a bone I'd fractured in my fall, I ripped the IV out of my hand and pushed open the bedroom door of the safe house.

In the center of the living room, instead of typical framed family photos, hung a massive, Sicilian Mafia-themed oil painting.

It showed Darien as a powerful godfather holding the power of life and death.

The woman standing beside him—wearing the black onyx ring that symbolized his wife—was Mia.

Taking in the room's displays stole my breath.