Chapter 3

The second they left, Elena locked the door. She collapsed on the edge of the bed and sobbed.

"You can't go, Sienna." Tears poured down her face. She pulled an old suitcase from under the bed with trembling hands. "You pass out if you stand for three minutes. How are you going to make it to Long Island? They're going to tear you apart!"

"Help me with my makeup, Mom." I dragged myself to the cracked mirror. My voice was quiet, totally flat.

I took off the wig. A ghost stared back at me. Sunken eyes, gray skin, and a bald head covered in dark veins. I looked like a corpse.

It didn't matter. Matteo's bride wasn't supposed to look like a beggar.

Elena bit her lip. She took the wig and carefully adjusted it over my bare scalp. Then she opened an old makeup box. It was a joke, really. Matteo bought this for my eighteenth birthday. It was the only thing left from my old life.

The foundation covered the rot. For a second, the old mafia princess looked back at me. I offered the mirror a dry smile. I had almost forgotten what I used to look like.

Elena wiped her tears. She held my arm and helped me down the dark stairwell.

The cold wind hit me the second we stepped outside. It sliced into my lungs. My throat seized with a violent cough.

A black armored Cadillac sat at the curb. A guard held the door. Matteo was scrolling through his phone. Camila clung to his arm.

"I'm ready. We can go."

Matteo glanced up. Cold gray eyes swept over me. "Still high maintenance, I see. Five years changed nothing."

His mouth twisted into a cruel smirk. "Look at you. Didn't your rich boyfriend feed you? You're nothing but skin and bones."

"The family fell," I said flatly. "We broke up."

"Good." He locked his phone and stepped closer, glaring down at me. "Can't even walk to a car without someone holding you up? It's just a sprained ankle. Now your aging mother has to be your maid? Are you playing the victim on purpose, Sienna?"

Years ago, if I got a paper cut, he wouldn't let me lift a finger for a week.

I dug my nails into my coat. My fingers were ice cold. I looked up and forced a polite smile. "Torn ligament. Doctor's orders to stay off it. But I promised you, and I keep my word."

Camila rested her head against his shoulder. Her fingers toyed with his lapel. "Don't take it personally, Miss Vane. Matteo runs an empire. He's hard on everyone. He's only sweet to me."

Her words stung like a slap to the face.

He used to stay up all night just to hold me when I had a bad dream. Now, his hands belonged to someone else.

I swallowed the blood pooling on my tongue. "Are we leaving now?"

Matteo looked me over with cold detachment. "I planned on going today. But looking at you, you'd pass out before we even got there."

He held out a black card. "If you're sick, see a doctor. I can spare the pocket change. Buy some vitamins or supplements if you have to. When you show up next time to settle your debt, I don't want to see you half-dead."

He opened the car door and helped Camila inside. "We're not going today. Go home. Wait for my call. Don't be late."

The heavy door slammed shut. The Cadillac sped off, scattering dead leaves in its wake.

I stood there in silence, running my fingers over the edges of his card. In the end, I went nowhere. He didn't know that no supplements in the world could save me now. That night, the bone pain hit. It felt like someone was drilling into my spine. I curled on the mattress, biting down on a rag to keep from screaming. Cold sweat soaked my shirt. I counted every breath just to stay alive.

Three nights later, at eleven, the burner phone on my table buzzed. It was his private line. The one he gave me years ago.

I grabbed it and pressed it to my ear. "Hello?"

"Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. Pier forty-two." Matteo's voice was low and rough.

Five years. My knuckles turned white against the plastic. I couldn't stop listening to that voice.

Years ago, when enemies surrounded my father's house, I couldn't sleep from terror. Matteo would sit outside my bedroom door. He spoke through the wood in that exact same low rumble, repeating my name until I drifted off. He was my protector back then.

My chest ached. "Matteo," I whispered. "I—"

Fabric rustled over the speaker. Then a soft, breathy moan cut me off.

"Matteo, put the phone down. Come here. I can't reach the clasp on my dress."

Camila.

There was a pause on the line. "Be on time," he said. Then, without a second thought, the call ended. A sharp dial tone screamed in the quiet room.

My hand gave out. The phone clattered against the floorboards.

He was touching her right now. He was whispering the things he used to whisper to me. That hurt far more than the chemotherapy ever had.

Elena rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Try to sleep, baby. He's gone. It's over."

I blinked back the tears and smiled. "I know, Mom. I'm okay."

The night stretched on forever. My time was running out anyway. As long as one of us was happy, that was enough.