Chapter 3

The sound of heavy objects dragging across the floor woke me up the next morning.

By the time I made it out, most of the furniture was already gone.

I rushed to the doorway and tried to block two enforcers in the hallway. "Get your hands off my stuff!"

"Take the painting and the easel too."

Bianca stood at the door, holding a clipboard with a handwritten list.

"Sienna, this is the Boss's order." She didn't even blink, her tone cold and purely administrative. "Since you're desperate enough to pawn family heirlooms for cash, you don't need any of this junk."

The enforcer shoved me hard out of the way. My shoulder slammed against the doorframe with a dull thud.

They moved fast, loading the custom sofa, rugs, and kitchenware onto the freight elevator one by one. In less than half an hour, the once-luxurious penthouse was nothing more than an empty concrete box.

Two years ago, my drug-addict father racked up a massive debt and sold me to drug dealers as collateral.

That night, Marcello kicked down the basement door and blew the dealer's head off right in front of me. He pulled me out of the pile of corpses with a still-smoking gun, staring straight into my eyes. "Starting today, nobody in New York is ever touching what's mine."

Those were his exact words.

Now, his trusted men were stripping my home down to the bare walls right in front of my face.

I didn't have time to fall apart. Even an abortion cost twenty-five hundred bucks.

I changed my jacket and took the subway to Manhattan.

I headed for an exclusive underground casino that only catered to mafia elites and Wall Street billionaires.

Places like that burned through cash, paid the highest tips, and handed out quick money.

I tracked down the floor manager, flashed the fast shuffling skills I picked up back in the slums, and landed a temporary gig.

Dealing cards and pushing the drink cart. One hundred bucks a night plus tips.

"Be here at eight tomorrow night in uniform." The manager gave me a dismissive sweep of his eyes and waved me off.

I stepped out of the casino's back exit, and the bitter Manhattan wind hit me square in the chest.

A sudden, violent cramp ripped through my stomach. A wave of black dizziness hit me, my legs gave out, and I crashed hard onto the asphalt.

When I came to, I was lying on a lumpy cot in a backstreet clinic, an IV needle taped to the back of my hand.

The backstreet doctor stood over me, pulling off his gloves. "Your blood sugar tanked. You almost went into shock. You're pregnant and starving yourself? Do you want to die?"

I propped myself up on the mattress, my throat raspy and dry. "My husband is dead."

The doctor shot me one look and asked no more questions.

I stumbled out of the clinic, leaned against a chain-link fence, and called Marcello.

The first time, he dropped the call instantly.

The second time, it rang out until voicemail.

The third time, a busy signal.

My fingers were frozen stiff. I had to text Stella and borrow a hundred bucks just to cover the clinic fee.

I dragged myself back to the empty penthouse.

The moment I pushed the door open, a heavy wave of high-end cigar smoke hit me.

The lights were off. Marcello stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows without curtains, smoking in the dark, his coat tossed over the windowsill. Hearing the door, he spun around. His tie was loose and crooked, his eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night.

He took in the empty walls, then his gaze locked onto me, his jaw tightening into a hard line.

"You called three times. I ditched a weapons deal with a Brooklyn boss to get here." He stubbed out his cigarette, crossed the room in long strides, his voice dangerously low. "You sold everything in the house?"

I froze.

Bianca told him I did this?!

Before I could get a word out, his hand shot out, grabbing my chin and forcing me up.

"Cheap disinfectant and street dust." He glared into my eyes, pure disappointment dripping from his face. "You put yourself through this pathetic little act just to back me into a corner?"

I stared at the face inches away from mine.

I used to think this man was my shelter. Now I knew he wouldn't bother checking a damn thing before condemning me. In his gilded cage, I was just a criminal waiting for a sentence.

I wrenched my face away and batted his hand down. "Give me money."

The air went dead quiet.

Marcello's hand hung in midair. The tiny flicker of worry in his eyes vanished, replaced by an arctic chill.

"Money?" He let out a short, harsh laugh. "You drag me back with three emergency calls, gut the apartment, and pawn your family heirlooms, all just to shake me down for cash?"

"I need twenty-five hundred dollars." I raised my chin and stared him down.

"I thought you were better than women who only care about a paycheck." Marcello stepped back, smoothing his suit jacket, his tone locked back into absolute Don mode. "Since you love this empty room so much, you can stay in it."

He didn't wait for an explanation. He turned and walked out.

The heavy oak door slammed shut, rattling the frame.

Morning light turned the floor to ice.

My phone buzzed in my jeans pocket.

I looked down at the screen. A text from Bianca:

"The Boss says greed has a price. Next month's allowance is cut in half. Know your place."

A second later, my banking app pinged with a deposit alert.

Deposit: $50.00.

Fifty bucks.

He ruled the entire East Coast underworld, yet he threw me fifty dollars to decide if my baby lived or died.

I sat on the cold concrete floor, completely numb. No tears left.

I opened a new text message, pulled up Marcello's private number, and tapped out a single line:

"I know mafia marriages only end in widowhood, not divorce. I already signed the papers. Either you sign them too, or you walk in here tonight and put a bullet in my head."

I hit send.

The screen and the night went pitch black together.