Chapter 3

The afternoon snowstorm swept through Montreal, wind and ice lashing the streets.

I went to the family hospital to pick up my regular stomach medication. Three years of adapting to the mafia's inverted schedule had given me a severe ulcer.

I'd barely reached the clinic door when I heard Liliana's sugary laugh from inside.

"Luca, it hurts so much. Blow on it for me?"

I peered through the gap in the window. Luca had shed his suit jacket, sitting by the bed in his white shirt, a cotton swab in hand. Liliana leaned against the velvet pillows, her calf marked with a few shallow scratches from rose thorns, but she carried on like she'd been shot.

"Catherine's just too sensitive," Liliana pouted, her voice dripping with grievance. "If I'd known, I never would've gone abroad for training. I let someone else steal what was mine."

Luca didn't argue. He kept his head down, gently dabbing ointment on Liliana's leg, leaning in to blow on it.

I pushed the door open and walked in, my face blank.

The laughter died instantly. Liliana shrank back under the covers like a startled fawn. Luca shot to his feet, brow furrowed, a flicker of guilt crossing his eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

"Picking up my meds." I walked to the cabinet and gave the doctor my name. "And I'm stopping by the crafting room to get my last thing."

Luca's expression shifted. "The wedding dress you spent three years on?"

Three years. I'd scoured workshops around the world, picked the finest materials with my own hands, stitched every thread until my fingers bled. For him. For the future I'd believed in. For the church wedding set for next month.

"Yes." I took the pill box from the doctor and tucked it into my coat.

Luca seemed to relax. He thought I wanted the dress because I still cared. Still believed in him.

"The party's about to start. The room's a mess right now. I'll have my men bring it to your room tomorrow, safe and sound." His tone softened, carrying that condescending reassurance.

"No. I'm getting it now."

I turned and walked out of the clinic, heading straight for the top floor. Luca followed, uneasy, with Liliana trailing behind.

At the crafting room door, Liliana's cousins were chatting. They rolled their eyes when they saw me.

"Well, well. It's the New York vixen."

"What's wrong? Jealous of the Don's throwing a party for Liliana?"

I ignored them and kept walking. Two hulking bodyguards stepped in front of me, blocking the door like iron walls.

"The room's being set up for Miss Liliana's celebration. No outsiders allowed."

"I'm just grabbing one thing. Then I'm gone."

"What thing?" Liliana pushed through from behind, her face wary and hostile.

"The wedding dress."

"No!" Liliana shrieked. "That dress was made with family money. It's Luca's property. What gives you the right to take it?"

"Exactly. If you're broke, go earn a little pocket money on your back. Stop sneaking around like a thief." The cousin laughed loudly.

I took a deep breath. "I made that dress with my own hands. Every inch of silk came from my own savings. Not one cent of family money."

I tried to push past them.

"You dare force your way in?"

One of the bodyguards shot his arm out and shoved my shoulder hard. My boots had heels. My foot slipped, and I went tumbling down the stairs.

A sharp crack came from my ankle. Pain exploded behind my eyes. Cold sweat soaked through my back. Years of etiquette training kicked in instinctively—I bit down and made no sound.

A beat of silence from above.

Luca stood at the top of the stairs, watching me crumple at the landing. He took a half step forward, like he might rush down.

"Ow! It hurts so bad!"

Behind him, Liliana cried out, clutching her freshly ointment-smeared calf and collapsing against Luca. "Luca, my wound's infected. It's killing me..."

Luca's foot stopped. He turned and caught Liliana in his arms, completely forgetting the woman trembling in pain on the floor.

Liliana nestled against him, her eyes sliding over to me. The corner of her mouth curved up.

I lay on the cold floor, watching my ankle swell and redden. I didn't call out. I didn't cry.

I gripped the wall with both hands and forced myself up, inch by painful inch.

Back in my room, I bit down on a towel and bound the fractured ankle myself with bandages. Pain radiated through my whole body. Sweat trickled down.

I didn't cry or scream. Only exhaustion remained.

My father's contact sent a pin. His car was parked a kilometer away.

I pushed through the pain and stood, ready to leave without a word.

Just as I reached for my luggage, a knock came at the door.

Luca walked in slowly, a bag of medicine in his hand.