Left To Burn, She Rose A Queen

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."