Xiao Yan

I saved a man bleeding out in the snow. He had no memory, so I called him Ben. We lived in a cabin, fell in love, and married by firelight with no witnesses but the ghosts of my parents. Then one day, he disappeared. Two years later, he returned. Not as my husband, but as Bernard Logan, the ruthless Underboss of the city's most dangerous crime family. And he didn't remember me. He brought his cruel new fiancée to my clinic and treated me like a stranger. When she threw my father’s antique music box into a cactus display, he watched as I tore my hands apart trying to save it. He called our past a "drug-induced hallucination" and threatened to destroy me if I spoke up. Worst of all, I found out I was pregnant. He cornered me in the hospital room, his eyes cold and devoid of the warmth I used to know. "Is it mine?" I knew if I said yes, he would turn my child into a killer like him. Or his fiancée would ensure we never survived. So I looked the love of my life in the eye and lied. "No," I said. "It's not yours." I signed his NDA, took his hush money, and vanished to Europe to raise my twins alone. I thought I was free. I found a good man who actually loved me. But three years later, at an art gallery in Zurich, the crowd parted. Bernard was standing there, staring at me with a terrifying hunger. He had found out the truth. And he was ready to burn the world down to get us back.

My fiancé Brett and I were building a design empire. When he broke his leg, he hired a temporary housekeeper, Glenda, while I was away on business. I thought she was there to help; I didn't realize she was there to replace me. She systematically took over my home, turning Brett against me piece by piece. The final straw was finding my cat, Apollo, locked in a cage, bruised and starving. When I confronted them, Brett defended her. He called me a monster and told me to get rid of my cat for the sake of the baby I was secretly carrying. The shock of his betrayal was so profound that I miscarried that night. He never knew. He just screamed that I was a cold, calculating bitch and that Glenda was a "good woman" who truly loved him. So I left. I took my cat, liquidated my half of our company, and disappeared. Three years later, I walked into an industry gala and saw him across the room-a broken man. He looked at me with desperate regret, but I just smiled. My revenge wouldn't be loud; it would be my success.

My marriage ended with a phone call while I was bleeding out on the bathroom floor, seven months pregnant. My husband chose to comfort his intern over a stray cat instead of saving me and our baby. He told me I was strong enough to handle it alone. He then stood by as his mistress tried to murder our newborn son, forcing me to kneel and apologize to protect his political career. He called me unstable, a bad mother, while she wore my clothes and lived in my home. The hero I married was a lie. When he gave my son her family name, I knew leaving wasn't enough. I had to burn his world to the ground.

I came home from a business trip, and my husband told me our six-year-old son was dead. He showed me the dashcam footage of Leo dying of heatstroke, left alone in the car by his young nanny, Kendall. But instead of seeking justice, my husband locked me in the car and turned the heat on full blast, recreating our son's final moments. He demanded the password to my phone to delete the footage, snarling that we couldn't ruin a twenty-year-old's future over a "mistake." To force my hand, he had thugs break into my elderly father's nursing home room, threatening him on a live video call. Later, at our son's memorial, he defended Kendall as she took selfies with the casket and played pop music. He helped her show a manipulated video to the crowd, painting me as a negligent, career-obsessed mother. The mourners threw drinks at me while my husband protected his lover. The next day, I learned the truth. My father, after being blackmailed by those same thugs, had taken his own life to protect me. My husband hadn't just covered up a murder; he had caused another. He thought he had won, that he had destroyed all the evidence and broken me completely. But he forgot one thing. The GPS smartwatch on our son's wrist. It recorded everything—not just his death, but every cruel, taunting word Kendall whispered as she let him die.

The cold, damp air clung to me as I stood on the porch of the Hayes family home. It was late, the kind of late where the world feels heavy and silent. I swallowed hard and asked Mrs. Hayes, "Is it true? That Liam... that he's been in love with me? His whole life?" Her brilliant smile was the answer, confirming a devotion I hadn't recognized. For years, I had held a secret, hopeless love for my adoptive brother, Ethan Miller, who had practically raised me. Sketchbooks filled with his face were my hidden treasure-until he found them. His face wasn' t just shocked; it was filled with pure disgust. "This is sick, Chloe," he spat, throwing the sketchbook at my feet. From that day, my life became a living hell. His new girlfriend, Madison Lee, my college roommate, systematically framed me for everything. Ethan, my Ethan, believed her every time, his cold, disappointed eyes killing a piece of me with every glance. The final blow came when he announced their wedding, then threw me out of the house. The Chloe who loved Ethan Miller died that night. Tonight, a new Chloe was born, one who would sever every tie and burn every bridge. I doused my sketchbooks in lighter fluid and watched them burn, his smile turning to ash. I texted Liam Hayes one word: Yes. He immediately replied, I'm on the first flight back. Don't go anywhere. I'm coming home. Ethan stood, his eyes wild with confusion, as he stared at the burning remains of my past. "Why?" he demanded, as I quoted him, "Because they're disgusting. You said so yourself." I announced my engagement to Liam, on the exact same date as his wedding. My parents nodded, relieved, but Mrs. Miller's smile faltered. "But... Chloe, that's Ethan and Madison's wedding day." "I know," I replied. "It's a good day to start a new life."

The scent of wet concrete used to be the perfume of my dreams, the promise of my architectural masterpiece taking shape. Until I stood on the muddy ground of my construction site and saw it: a clumsy, awkward box, nothing like the light-filled space I' d designed. My ex-boyfriend, Mark Davis, had offered to handle the plan submissions as a "parting gift." It turns out, his gift was a betrayal. He' d swapped my intricate blueprints for cheap, generic plans bought online. My dream home was being built into a monstrosity, a monument to his fraud. When I confronted him, Mark' s voice dripped with condescension. He' d made "practical tweaks" to make it "more sellable," he claimed. Then he blocked me, leaving me with a sabotaged project, mounting fees, and a crumbling reputation. My attempts to find justice through official channels were met with bureaucratic indifference. They saw a "messy breakup," a "disgruntled ex-girlfriend," not a professional crime. They even suggested I compromise, perhaps "compensate" the man destroying my career. But I wouldn' t compromise. I would fight. My last, desperate hope lay with Arthur Vance, my formidable former mentor, who had given me a sculpture years ago as a mark of his personal favor. I knew it was my only leverage. I had to get to him, no matter the cost. My next move would be a gamble, a desperate attempt to reclaim my truth.

Elara Vance believed her world was solid: a devoted Lumin wife to Damien, and a proud mother to Kaelen, her son whose powerful Tier 7 Aura brought her immense joy. But that foundation crumbled when, in a horrifying display of ambition, Damien and Kaelen, with chilling indifference, betrayed her, brutally extracting her Lumin Core and leaving her for dead. She gasped awake, not in the afterlife, but back in opulent Lumin society, at the very Concord Gala where, in her past life, Damien had chosen her as his bride. This time, however, utter public humiliation awaited as Damien heartlessly announced his choice of her cousin, Selena Vance-a supposed rising Lumina Scion-and dismissed Elara as nothing but "Tier 1 weakness." The degradation deepened when community patriarch Alistair Thorne, driven by family "pacts," condemned Elara to a forced marriage with Rhys Ashworth, a man suffering from a fatal Aura Drain, a cruel ploy by Damien to ensure her quiet, swift end. The raw, burning questions of her agonizing death tangled with the fresh pain of public scorn: Why did they crave her demise so deeply, despising her very being as an insurmountable obstacle? Yet, armed with the vivid nightmares of betrayal and the shocking truth she now held-that Selena' s dazzling Tier 6 Aura was a dangerous lie, fueled by illicit serums-Elara stood firm. Her seemingly helpless acceptance of the doomed marriage concealed a quiet storm: she carried the forgotten ancestral secrets of her Vance lineage, ancient healing arts like "Aura Weaving." This forced union, intended as her grave, was now her unlikely battleground, her chance to not only survive but to uncover the insidious rot beneath their community's shining facade and unleash a power they never dreamed she possessed.

My life was perfect. I was an event coordinator, planning my Maui honeymoon with Ethan, my fiancé of five years. What he didn't know was I was quietly living like this on purpose, proving myself before revealing I was the heiress to a massive hospitality empire. Then, my world imploded. My job termination letter landed on the same day Ethan confessed his boss, Victoria, was pregnant with his baby. And he admitted he'd orchestrated my firing, claiming it was a "strategic move" for his career and "our" future. He then kicked me out of our apartment after Victoria, his baby mama, vomited on my shoes right in front of him. I tried to escape to Maui, our supposed honeymoon destination, only to find them there. Ethan, unashamed, humiliated me on the beach, accusing me of stalking him. But it got worse. Victoria and he decided to make a public spectacle, branding me as an unstable harasser at a company mixer. Standing there, about to be shamed into silence, I wondered how five years of my life, built on a lie for his sake, could end in such utter public degradation and betrayal. Was I truly going to lose everything for a man who couldn't see past his ambition and an underhanded boss? Just as I thought I'd hit rock bottom, the doors swung open. My billionaire father, Mr. Miller, walked in with Liam, my childhood friend. And that' s when everything changed.

My husband, Ethan Hayes, was a powerful, arrogant man, openly flaunting his mistress, Chloe Vance. Everyone pitied me, the quiet, obedient wife, living in his shadow. But they had no idea. Every humiliation, every cruel dismissal, every moment of neglect was a calculated step in my secret, desperate plan. I married Ethan for one reason: to have a child. Not his child, but Caleb's. Caleb, his identical twin, the man I loved more than life itself, tragically taken too soon. Ethan was merely a vessel, a living replica of my soulmate. When that pregnancy test turned positive, my mission was complete. I filed for divorce, expecting his usual dismissiveness. He waved me off, telling me to "handle it," too consumed with Chloe's trivial demands. He even pushed me down the stairs when Chloe falsely accused me, leaving me bleeding, gasping for our baby. But the final straw came when Chloe, with Ethan' s blessing, shattered a small, invaluable snow globe-Caleb's last, unfulfilled gift to me. He thought my tears, my quiet "devotion," my carefully curated items were for him. He never saw the truth, never understood his own arrogance blinded him to the woman he truly possessed. How could he? His ego was too vast. So, when the divorce was finalized, I called him. "I never loved you, Ethan," I told him, each word a shard of ice. "You were just a means to an end. The child I carry is Caleb's legacy, not yours." I walked away, leaving him and his empty world behind, to start anew in San Francisco, with Caleb's child, and finally, my own freedom.

My life was perfectly on track. I was Ashley, the daughter of Katherine, heir to the "Katherine's Kitchen" bakery empire, and I was about to ace my SATs and get into my dream Ivy League school. Everything was normal. Until Spirit Week. A viral video exploded through the school, showing my foster sister, Brittany, tear-streaked, claiming our mother had stolen her. That I was the imposter, the switched baby, and the entire family fortune was rightfully hers. Her biological mother, Brenda, was right there, nodding grimly. Suddenly, I was public enemy number one. Whispers followed me, my locker was vandalized, and the bullying became relentless. My college art project, weeks of work, was smashed. Brittany even faked bruises and got me suspended, shattering my academic future. Then a "leaked" DNA test, clearly fake, confirmed their lies, making even me question everything. How could my life be stolen by a baseless lie? Why did my own foster sister resent me so deeply, and why would her mother unleash such a venomous campaign? The injustice burned, leaving me reeling, wondering who I even was anymore. But my mother fought back, proving the first DNA test was fake. Yet, Brittany's malice didn't die – she tried to drug me. And Brenda, consumed by delusion, escalated to setting fire to my house! I wouldn't run. The battle for my life, my name, and my future had only just begun. And I was going to win.

Ethan Vanderbilt, heir to a colossal fortune, was set to make the biggest announcement of his life: his engagement at the annual Vanderbilt Legacy Ball. But waking that morning, a tidal wave of *past life* memories crashed over him: his ruthless wife, Chloe Ashton's, affair with Marcus Thorne, her blatant pursuit of his fortune, the chilling truth that her child wasn't his, and the cold steel of the knife she plunged into him. He remembered the quiet, unwavering love of Olivia Hayes, his guardian, a devotion he callously ignored, leading to her heartbroken death not long after his own murder. The raw fury of betrayal, the agony of his death, and the profound guilt for Olivia's unrequited devotion consumed him. How could he have been so incredibly blind to the viper beside him and the angel who truly cared? Now, back on the very morning of his original fate, Ethan knew one thing with absolute certainty: this time, he would rewrite his past, dismantle his enemies, and choose the woman who deserved his love—Olivia.

I used to be Sarah Jensen, a driven investigative journalist, before David’s political ambition consumed my life. I became the perfect political wife, hosting lavish events and silently managing our home. My own dreams dwindled, replaced by his towering aspirations. The façade finally shattered during a bitter confrontation about his blatant affair with Victoria, my own cousin and his Chief of Staff. In a terrifying moment, my son, Ethan, loyal to his father, physically pushed me. I hit the cold marble floor, a searing pain blooming in my side. David, Victoria, and Ethan simply stepped over me, their faces utterly devoid of concern, as they left for a celebratory dinner. Hours later, at the hospital, I learned the horrifying truth: I’d lost the baby I never knew I was carrying. This savage act, this callous abandonment by my husband, my son, and my family, left me in a state of icy clarity. They chose their image and ambition over my life, over our child. My own parents later dismissed my pain, ready to side with David, even threatening to institutionalize me. How could the people I sacrificed everything for betray me so absolutely? But in that raw, profound despair, something forged within me. Not a collapse, but an unbreakable resolve. They believed I was fractured, powerless. They were gravely mistaken. I harbored years of meticulous records on David’s illicit dealings, a hidden dossier. He’d taught me the game; now, as a journalist reborn, I would play for keeps, exposing every lie and reclaiming my life.

Yana thought her first time was with the man who owned her heart. When morning came, her eyes opened to meet the gaze of a handsome stranger. She shared her bed with a remorseless devil. Not only did he destroy her wedding, but he also stepped on her dignity and clipped her wings. Indifference and cruelty covered his heart like armor, but he trapped her soul and dared to call it love. Instead of a sweet wedding day, all Yana received was suffering.

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

I was the "Caged Canary" of the underworld, a biological asset designed to merge two crime families. My fiancé, Bryant Barnes, didn't love me. He loved the power I brought, and he loved his mistress, Kalia. The night Kalia broke into my penthouse and stomped on my hand, crushing the bones and my fashion career, Bryant didn't help me. He told the police she was my guest and warned me not to embarrass him with a cast. That was just the beginning. When Kalia lied about feeling unsafe, Bryant dangled me off a balcony. When she faked a kidnapping, he locked me in an industrial freezer for six hours until I turned blue. And when I fell into the marina, he swam right past me to save her, leaving me to drown in the freezing water. He destroyed my body and my dignity for a woman who was stealing my designs and faking a pregnancy. He thought I was just a broken obligation he could discard. But he made a fatal mistake. He didn't make sure I was dead. I dragged myself out of the water and made a call to his greatest rival. On the night of our grand merger, I walked onto the stage wearing royal blue instead of white. I rolled up my sleeve to reveal the scars he gave me, looked him dead in the eye, and grabbed the microphone. "I hereby terminate my engagement to Bryant Barnes. And I am proud to announce my betrothal to the true King of this city."

One casual visit to her father's study; an unplanned collision with the malevolent Russian Bratva mafia boss plunged her life into a downward spiral. Forced to marry him for an alliance that bordered on keeping her family's business stronger, she had no choice but to accept her fate after an unsuccessful attempt at absconding right before the wedding. But with each new discovery about him, she realized that the masked husband she despised so much had several layers that tugged at her heartstrings, giving her no choice but to fall deeply for him. However, what happens when the dreary and dark secrets from his past resurfaces and threatens to disrupt not just their blooming relationship and his position as Capo, but their existence as well?

I was three days away from marrying the Underboss of the Fazio crime family when I unlocked his burner phone. The screen glowed toxic bright in the dark next to my sleeping fiancé. A message from a contact saved as 'Little Trouble' read: "She is just a statue, Dante. Come back to bed." Attached was a photo of a woman lying in the sheets of his private office, wearing his shirt. My heart didn't break; it simply stopped. For eight years, I believed Dante was the hero who pulled me from a burning opera house. I played the perfect, loyal Mafia Princess for him. But heroes don't give their mistresses rare pink diamonds while giving their fiancées cubic zirconia replicas. He didn't just cheat. He humiliated me. He defended his mistress over his own soldiers in public. He even abandoned me on the side of the road on my birthday because she faked a pregnancy emergency. He thought I was weak. He thought I would accept the fake ring and the disrespect because I was just a political pawn. He was wrong. I didn't cry. Tears are for women who have options. I had a strategy. I walked into the bathroom and dialed a number I hadn't dared to call in a decade. "Speak," a voice like gravel growled on the other end. Lorenzo Moretti. The Capo of the rival family. The man my father called the Devil. "The wedding is off," I whispered, staring at my reflection. "I want an alliance with you, Enzo. And I want the Fazio family burned to the ground."

I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella. Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark. But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved. Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies. When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel. While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest. The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella. He ordered my father to punish me. I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth. That night, the love in my heart finally died. On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape—the only proof that I was Seven. Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney. By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

For seven years, I served as the eyes for Dante Vitiello, the blind Capo of New York. I pulled him back from the edge of madness, tending to his wounds and warming his bed when everyone else had given up on him. But the moment his vision returned, the years of devotion turned to ash. In a single phone call, he decided to marry Sofia Moretti for territory, dismissing me as just "the maid's daughter" and a "comfort" he intended to keep as a mistress. He forced me to watch him court her. At a gala, when a chaotic accident caused a tower of champagne glasses to shatter, Dante threw his body over Sofia to protect her. He left me standing there, bleeding from the glass shards, while he carried her away like she was porcelain. He didn't even look back at the woman who had saved his life. I realized then that I had worshipped a broken god. I had given him my dignity, only for him to treat me like a disposable bandage now that he was whole. He arrogantly believed I would stay in the penthouse, grateful for his scraps. So, while he was out celebrating his engagement, I met with his mother. I signed the severance agreement for fifty million dollars. I packed my bags, wiped my phone, and boarded a one-way flight to Australia. By the time Dante came home to an empty bed, realized his mistake, and began tearing the city apart to find me, I was already a ghost.

I stood alone at the center of my art gallery opening, clutching a glass of warm champagne, while the guests whispered behind their hands. My husband, the Capo of the Chicago Outfit, wasn't there. A breaking news alert on my phone explained why. It was a high-definition photo of Dante shielding his mistress, Isabella, from the rain. He was touching her with a protective possessiveness he had never once shown me. Then came his text: "Isabella needed me. Go home." That was the moment the cage door unlocked. I didn't go home to cry. I went to his office the next morning with a stack of papers disguised as "gallery insurance forms." While Isabella sat on his desk, mocking me for being a boring housewife, Dante was too annoyed to read the fine print. He just wanted me gone so he could get back to her. He signed the divorce decree. He signed the asset dissolution. Most importantly, without looking, he signed the irrevocable relinquishment of parental rights. I walked out with my freedom, but fate had a cruel sense of humor. That night, I stared at a positive pregnancy test. I was carrying the Sovrano heir he had always demanded. And he had just legally signed away his right to ever know his child. I fled to the Swiss Alps, vanishing into the snow to raise my baby away from his world of blood and bullets. I thought I was safe, until six months later. Dante hadn't just sent men to look for me. He had burned his own shipping empire to the ground, destroying his status as King, just to prove he would trade it all for the wife he threw away.

"Fifty strikes," Floyd ordered, his voice devoid of warmth. I knelt in the freezing snow, watching the man I had taken a bullet for five years ago stand beside his new fiancée, Jaylah. Because Jaylah tore her engagement dress and blamed me, Floyd let his men beat me until my face was unrecognizable. But that was just the beginning of my hell. To save his alliance with Jaylah's family, he drained my blood to save her mother, ignoring my own fading pulse. When Jaylah lied that I tried to burn her, Floyd forced me to thrust my hands—my architect's hands—into glowing coals until the flesh melted. He stripped me of my name, my protection, and finally, my life. "You are a liability," he said, pushing me into the freezing pool with a skimmer pole. He watched me drown with the same detached interest he used to inspect firearms. My lungs burned, and my heart turned to ice. I died hating him more than I ever loved him. I thought it was the end. But then, I gasped. Air rushed into my lungs. I wasn't in the water. I was sitting at a drafting table, five years before the nightmare began. My hands were smooth. No scars. No burns. And when Floyd Meyers approached me on the quad, smiling like the boy I used to love, I didn't smile back. I ran.

I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me. But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest. The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me. They didn't. Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her. They let me burn to keep her warm. When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages. That was the moment Elena Vitiello died. I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York. By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring. "You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them. "Burn for it."