Chapter 2

The stench of disinfectant was sharp, laced with a faint metallic tang of blood—this wasn't a regular hospital, but an underground clinic affiliated with the DeLuca family.

The light was dim, save for the harsh beam of the surgical lamp cast across my bare arm. The flesh there was torn open, the skin curling outward, a grotesque mixture of burns and glass cuts.

"Lucky you came in time," said the "nurse"—a woman in a white coat with a weapon discreetly holstered at her waist. Her movements were practiced, efficient, and utterly devoid of tenderness. "Second-degree burns, deep. The glass caused lacerations. You'll need stitches. Bite down."

I bit my lip, refusing to make a sound, only managing a stiff nod. The amber light above made my vision swim. I'd been here, in this safehouse clinic, for two days.

No encrypted calls.

No coded messages.

No "Are you all right?"

No "It was a mistake that night."

Nothing.

They hadn't even bothered to feign civility. Not a single meaningless lie of comfort.

On the second night, I sat staring at the heavy satellite phone, my fingertips cold as they traced across the screen. Somewhere deep down, there was still a pathetic fragment of hope that the contact marked "T" might send a message.

Instead, the screen lit up with a notification from the family's encrypted social feed.

Blinding lights. Perfectly rehearsed smiles. Celia, dressed in a blood-red gown, stood in the center of the family villa's ballroom, laughing radiantly. On either side of her—Tad and Leo.

They raised crystal glasses of amber liquor, and Celia's lips curved in that expression I knew too well—one that belonged to victors flaunting their spoils.

"To my most loyal protectors, Tad and Leo," she toasted, voice ringing with mock sincerity. "Thank you for giving me an unforgettable birthday! Tonight, we celebrate forever! Look—our new tokens of alliance!"

I zoomed in on the photo.

Three identical silver bracelets, etched with an ancient Sicilian crest.

And on Tad and Leo's wrists—no sign of the steel bracelets we exchanged as teenagers when we swore our blood pact, sealed with the family's insignia.

My thumb slammed against the power button. The satellite phone hit the metal nightstand with a hollow thud.

Silence devoured the room again. Only the faint hiss of tires on wet asphalt seeped through the walls. My heart was the loudest sound in the world—yet even that beat carried no pain, only a hollow, frozen void.

Two days later, I returned to the penthouse safehouse that marked the edge of our family's territory.

It was supposed to be our command post—the place we chose when we became core members of the family.

Once, it had been the symbol of our shared ascent to power. Now, it was nothing but a gilded cage stuffed with the remains of betrayal.

I crossed the empty living room, city lights glittering far below, and headed straight for the master bedroom. Opening the bulletproof wardrobe, I began to pack in silence.

As I bent down to grab my tactical boots from beside the custom gun case, my motion froze.

In the corner lay a small, unremarkable black metal box—my so-called "treasure chest," filled with the remnants of a youth I once believed unbreakable.

I sank onto the cold floor, pulling it toward me. Dust smeared across my velvet trousers, but I didn't care.

Inside were stacks of letters—creased, smudged, some wrinkled then flattened again—Tad's and Leo's handwriting from our younger days.

Clumsy pencil sketches, childish vows of loyalty, get-well doodles from when I got hurt on a mission.

And one old Polaroid—

The three of us, kneeling in the mud beneath the old oak behind the family's training grounds. Dirty, scratched, smiling with pure, unguarded joy.

I remembered that day.

That summer.

A failed kidnapping attempt targeting our family. A trained Doberman had been released, lunging straight for me. I'd frozen in terror. It was Tad and Leo who stepped in front of me without hesitation. The dog sank its teeth into Tad's leg, blood gushing, but he refused to let go until it stopped moving.

Something changed that day.

They became my shield, my fortress.

And somewhere along the way, I fell for Tad—the boy who always stood in front of me—while Leo watched over me like a silent brother from behind.

Until Celia, with her poisoned smile, destroyed it all.

I sat there gripping my steel bracelet—the one engraved with the letter "N"—until its edge nearly cut into my palm.

I was such a fool.

I remembered kneeling in my father's study, begging him to take Celia under our protection. His sharp eyes pierced right through me.

"Are you certain, Nancy? The family isn't a charity. Not every act of kindness earns loyalty. Trust, given too freely, might cost you your life."

But I hadn't listened.

I truly believed love and protection could be repaid in kind.

Now I knew better.

She never wanted to be my sister.

She wanted to be me—to steal my place, my power, and my love.

I packed up the rest of my belongings with mechanical precision, restoring every family-issued document and weapon to its rightful place. Then I picked up that heavy "treasure chest" and walked to the sealed, bulletproof balcony.

The night was still. I placed the box down, flicked my Zippo open—click. The flame bloomed orange and alive.

Fire devoured everything.

Letters curled, blackened, turned to ash. The metal warped, losing its sheen. The photo of the three of us distorted in the blaze, then vanished entirely.

"Nancy!"

I spun around. Tad's voice—hoarse, furious, afraid—echoed behind me.

He stormed in, face pale, eyes wide.

"What the hell are you doing?!" He lunged toward the fire, horror twisting his features. "That's—our album! Our blood-pact bracelets?!"

"Yes," I said quietly, voice as flat as frozen glass. "I'm burning all evidence of my weakness."

He tried to move closer, but I stepped between him and the flames, gaze hard as steel.

"It's over."

Moments later, Leo appeared, his expression equally shocked. Arms crossed, his voice dripped with restrained judgment.

"What is this supposed to be? A performance? We get it, you're upset—but this? This is reckless, Nancy."

"This isn't recklessness." My tone was calm. Final. "This is severance."

"You'd throw away years of loyalty and brotherhood—for one misunderstanding?" Tad's voice cracked with something close to desperation. "We can fix this, Nancy. We can talk—"

I looked at him—the man I once thought I loved—and saw only a stranger wearing his face.

"I want nothing to do with you, or the so-called ‘New Order' you serve."

Then I turned, walking back into the untouched half of the apartment, leaving behind the blaze and its acrid smoke—

my own personal funeral for everything that used to matter.