Chapter 3

My fingers hadn't even reached the fireplace when a sudden force struck me from behind.

Before I knew it, Lorenzo was behind me. He seized my wrist and yanked me back so violently that I lost my footing and slammed onto the floor.

My gaze followed the sharp crease of his suit pants upward until it met his face—completely devoid of expression.

"Enough!" he snarled, his eyes smoldering with rage. "Losing your mind over that bastard was bad enough, but now you're willing to throw your life away too?"

He looked at me with pure revulsion. "Elena, you disgust me. Meeting you is the greatest regret of my life."

Regret?

A jagged, bitter laugh tore through my sobs.

Yeah, I regretted it too. I regretted not listening to Papa. I regretted ever crossing paths with him.

These two pieces of filth had just crushed Mia's last hope for survival.

I glanced at the clock on the wall.

9:58 pm. Two minutes left.

Mia lay motionless, her body already growing cold.

"Lorenzo, you'll regret this."

I lifted my head, my face smeared with blood and tears, my eyes hauntingly hollow. "You'll pay a brutal price for every single decision you've made today."

"Regret?"

Lorenzo laughed as if I had told a pathetic joke. He straightened, smoothed the lapels I had wrinkled, and looked around the room.

"I'm God here," he declared. "I hold the power of life and death over every soul in this room. Do you really think I'd regret crushing an ant?"

One of his closest Soldati stepped forward and handed him a handkerchief.

Lorenzo took it and methodically wiped the hand that had touched me, as if he had brushed against something filthy.

"Dispose of that body," he said, tilting his chin toward Mia's still form on the floor. His tone was as casual as if he were asking them to take out the trash. "And don't stain the carpet. Sophia had it custom-made in Turkilan."

At his command, several Soldati stepped forward with a black body bag.

They were going to stuff Mia, who still hadn't taken her final breath, into that bag right in front of me.

"Don't you touch her!"

I threw myself over Mia, shielding her tiny body with my own.

But I was spent. The crawling and the emotional outburst had completely drained what little strength I had left.

Two Soldati grabbed me by the arms, hoisting me up as easily as if I were a rag doll.

"Let me go! I'm the daughter of Don Corleone! I'm the Principessa of the Corleone famiglia, you bastards!"

I thrashed wildly, finally screaming the secret I had kept buried for five long years.

The banquet hall fell silent for a heartbeat. Then the laughter erupted, louder and crueler than before.

Sophia doubled over with tears of laughter.

"Dio mio! Did you hear that? She claims she's the daughter of Don Corleone. Does she mean Vito Corleone—the Don who controls all the mafia in Smeraldia and the Underworld Emperor of Europia?"

She sneered. "Elena, are you out of your mind? If you're the daughter of Don Corleone, then I'm the Queen!"

Lorenzo laughed along, his gaze a mix of pity and contempt.

"She's really lost it."

"If Don Corleone is really your Papa, how come no one from the Corleone famiglia has ever come looking for you in all these years?"

He stepped up to me and patted my cheek. "Face reality, Elena. You were an unwanted stray I picked up off the street. I let you play the Capo's wife for five years, and you still weren't satisfied. Now the dream is over."

"Gag her and throw her back in her room. As for that bastard…"

He paused and glanced at Mia on the floor.

Her hand hung limp at her side. Her fingertips had already turned lifeless gray.

"Dump her in the river. Let the fish have her. She won't be lonely down there."

I fought with every ounce of strength I could muster, but it was futile.

In that exact instant, a deafening roar tore through the night.

It wasn't the creak of a door, but the blast of an explosion.

The four-inch-thick doors of the banquet hall, along with the surrounding wall, were blown to pieces in an instant.

The massive shockwave launched the Soldati guarding the entrance into the air before slamming them against the wall.

As the dust and debris swirled in the air, a deathly silence descended upon the banquet hall.

Every head turned toward the gaping hole that used to be the entrance, terror written on every face.

Then, dozens of tiny crimson laser dots cut through the smoke, locking onto the foreheads of Lorenzo and Sophia.

Then came the perfectly synchronized footsteps. Each step was a heavy, suffocating promise of the slaughter to come.

Two columns of Soldati in full black tactical gear, clutching heavy assault rifles, stormed into the hall and sealed every exit with lethal efficiency.

On their chests was a shimmering gold insignia—a black stallion's head biting a rose dripping with blood.

They were the Corleone famiglia's elite personal guard, the Reaper's Scythe, deployed only when Don Corleone himself was on the move.

The smile on Lorenzo's face froze, his body turning as rigid as a corpse. The mockery in his eyes was replaced by soul-deep terror.

As a Capo, he knew that symbol better than his own name. It was the totem of the global underworld, the sigil of absolute power.

The smoke finally began to clear.

An old man in a hand-tailored black suit, leaning on a silver-headed cane, stepped slowly into the banquet hall.