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One hundred and four days. For one hundred and four consecutive days, I had been chained to the damp, unforgiving concrete wall of the Moretti estate’s underground holding cell. The iron cuffs biting into my wrists had rubbed the skin raw, leaving permanent bands of bruised and bleeding flesh. This pitch-black dungeon, once a whispered myth among the lower ranks of the Chicago mafia, had become my entire universe. It was my place of absolute penance for a betrayal I had never committed. I shifted my weight against the freezing stone, wincing as the tattered remains of my silk nightgown clung to the open wounds on my back. Three months of Lorenzo’s daily interrogations had left me a shattered husk of the woman I used to be. Today, the skin had split again beneath the bite of his leather belt, tiny crimson droplets pooling on the filthy floor beneath my bare feet. "Are you ready to confess, Elena?" Lorenzo’s voice cut through the heavy, stale air like a serrated blade. I didn't lift my head to look at him. I couldn't bear to see the absolute disgust in his dark eyes—those same beautiful, treacherous Italian eyes that had once looked at me at the altar, promising a lifetime of fierce protection and unwavering love. I had thought I would drown in his devotion. Instead, I was drowning in his cruelty. "I didn't leak the shipment routes," I whispered, my voice a hollow, raspy croak emptied of all its former vitality through endless repetition. "I swear to you, Lorenzo. I would never betray the Family." "Still lying." His heavy, custom-made Italian leather shoes echoed against the concrete as he stepped closer, invading my space. He grabbed a fistful of my matted hair, yanking my head back so I was forced to meet his furious gaze. "Valentina found the burner phone in your vanity, Elena. She traced the offshore accounts. The feds raided three of my warehouses because of you. My men are dead because of you." Valentina. His beautiful, cunning cousin by marriage, the woman who had played the role of my loyal confidante while secretly coveting my position as the Donna of the Moretti syndicate. "She planted it," I choked out, tears of absolute despair sliding down my hollow cheeks. "Please, Lorenzo, you have to look deeper. She’s playing you. As if the tears she shed for your lost men were real. As if I didn't love this family too." "Do not speak her name," he snarled, his grip tightening until my scalp burned. For one breathless, agonizing moment, I imagined he might see the truth in my eyes. I desperately hoped for some tiny acknowledgment of our shared history, the nights we spent dreaming of building an empire together. Instead, he shoved my head back against the wall with a sickening thud. "Valentina needs the estate secured by tonight," Lorenzo said coldly, wiping his hand on his tailored slacks as if touching me had soiled him. "I'm done playing this game with you. Tomorrow morning, you are being transferred to the cartel’s processing facility in Mexico. You’ll spend the rest of your short, miserable life in the dirt. You are no longer my wife. You are nothing." He turned and walked away, the heavy steel door slamming shut behind him with the horrifying sound of absolute finality. The deadbolt slid into place. Only when I was alone in the suffocating darkness did I allow myself to sob. Once, I had stood beside him in joy, praying for a blessed future, ruling the underworld by his side. Now, I knelt in shame, praying only for the sweet release of death. But as my tears hit the concrete, a different sensation began to blossom within my chest. It wasn't sorrow anymore. The girl who loved Lorenzo Moretti had died in this cell. What replaced her was something dark, venomous, and unyielding. I dragged my aching body toward the small drainage grate in the corner. For weeks, I had been using a rusted nail to chip away at the mortar holding the heavy iron ring to the wall. I pulled with the last reserve of my adrenaline. With a sickening scrape, the iron ring broke free from the rotting concrete. My hands were finally loose. I crawled to the far corner where a fractured gas pipe ran up toward the estate’s kitchen. I had smelled the faint leak for days. From my bra, I retrieved a small, silver Zippo lighter—a trinket dropped by a careless guard weeks ago. I flicked the lid open. The metallic clink sounded like a death knell for the Moretti empire. If Lorenzo wanted me to disappear, I would oblige. But I was taking his precious manor down with me.

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