Chapter 2

Elena got off the bus downtown, dizzy with hunger.

The two dollar coins were spent, and she was penniless.

Someone was handing out flyers on the street corner. Elena took one—it was a job advertisement: "Underground club seeking female hostesses. Room and board provided, excellent compensation."

An address was listed below. Elena checked a map; it was about ten miles away.

Elena started walking.

New York's winter was bone-chilling, and Elena's old sweater couldn't block the wind. Her knees ached with every step, but she couldn't stop—she needed work, needed money, needed a place to live.

The ten-mile walk took nearly two hours. By the time Elena finally stood outside "The Underground" club, it was almost dark.

It was an old building with red neon signs at the entrance, exuding a kind of decadent luxury.

Elena pushed open the door to find a smoke-filled hall, the air thick with whiskey, cigars, and expensive perfume. Several uniformed waitresses stood by the bar, their faces immediately showing disgust when Elena entered.

"Who are you?" A blonde woman looked Elena up and down. "We don't take beggars here."

"I... I'm here about the job." Elena handed her the flyer.

She glanced at it and snorted. "You? Look at yourself—filthy and thin as a ghost. What do you think this place is? A charity?"

The other waitresses laughed too. Elena stood there, her face burning with shame.

"What's going on?" A man's voice came from the staircase.

Elena looked up to see a well-dressed middle-aged man descending—presumably the manager. His gaze fell on Elena, and his eyes suddenly lit up.

"Wait." He approached Elena, studying her carefully. "What's your name?"

"Elena," Elena said quietly.

"Good." He turned to the blonde woman. "Get a black dress, size 36."

"But manager, she..."

"Do as I say!"

Minutes later, a black silk dress was thrust into Elena's hands.

"Go change." The manager pointed toward the restroom. "Then go straight to the 'Jazz' private room on the third floor. There's an important client there—I think he'll like your... fragile type."

Elena clutched the dress, a sense of foreboding rising in her chest. But she had no choice—she needed this job, needed to survive.

Elena entered the restroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Three years of torment had left her skeletal—prominent cheekbones, sunken eyes, skin pale as death. Though her eyes were still alive—those once-proud eyes now held only numbness and fear.

Elena put on the dress. The silk clung to her skin, cold and smooth. The dress was short, exposing her scarred legs. She tried to pull down the hem, but it was useless.

Taking a deep breath, Elena pushed open the restroom door.

The door to the third-floor "Jazz" private room was closed. Elena stood outside, her fingers lingering on the handle for a long time.

Then she pushed it open.

Cigar smoke billowed out, carrying the scent of expensive tobacco and aged whiskey.

Through the haze, Elena could make out a private poker table, leather armchairs arranged in a semicircle, and seven or eight men in tailored suits. The moment they saw Elena, their laughter stopped abruptly.

Elena's blood turned to ice.

She knew these faces. Every single one.

The blonde man at the head of the table—Luca Bertoni. Four years ago at the summer ball at the Palermo estate, he had approached Elena with flowers and a dance invitation. Elena had looked him over with barely concealed contempt, then turned to her friend, her voice loud enough for him to hear: "Even Marco De Luca has more breeding than this one. What makes him think he's worthy of my time?"

Sitting beside him was Francesco Conti, dark-haired with sharp features. Elena had once said within his hearing to her college roommate: "That type—all fast cars and sleeping with models. He doesn't even qualify to light my father's cigars."

And there were others. Sons of lesser families whom Elena had dismissed with a word or a glance during those carefree Sicilian summers.

The young men Elena had not only coldly rejected but cruelly humiliated were now before her.

But Elena was no longer the Rossi family princess. She was now just an ex-convict fresh out of prison.

They hadn't recognized her yet—Elena's gaunt face and scarred hands were too different from the girl they remembered. But they would soon. Any moment, one of them might see through the damage and remember.

Run.

Instinct screamed inside Elena. She took half a step back, her injured knees nearly buckling. Pain shot up her leg, making her stumble.

"Wait." Luca's voice cut through the silence. He stood up, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal glass. "Who let you in?"

Elena froze. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to disturb. Wrong room—I'll leave immediately—"

"Wrong room?" He stepped closer, and Elena could smell the whiskey on his breath. "You walk into a private poker game without knocking, interrupt us, and think you can just walk out?" He narrowed his eyes. "What kind of manners is that?"

Elena's throat tightened. Keep your head down, apologize, make yourself small. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. Please forgive me. I'll leave right away—"

"Turn around." His tone grew sharper. "Are you one of the new waitresses? Don't even understand basic respect."

Every muscle in Elena's body tensed. If she turned around, the light would fall directly on her face. If Luca looked too long, saw through the scars and signs of starvation...

God, please. Please don't let them recognize me.

Elena slowly turned around, head still down, letting her unwashed hair fall forward to hide her face.

Luca studied Elena in silence. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.

Elena could feel his gaze sweeping over her cheap sweater, her too-thin frame, and the way she unconsciously favored her right leg.

Then he threw his glass.

It shattered at Elena's feet, crystal exploding against marble. Whiskey splashed onto Elena's ankle, mixing with blood from where a shard cut her skin, bringing sharp pain.

Elena gasped but didn't move—couldn't move.

"Look up," Luca commanded. "What kind of woman walks into a room full of men and won't even meet their eyes?" He stepped closer. The smoke from his cigar curled between them. "Unless... you think you're too good for us?"

Behind him, Francesco laughed. "Careful, Luca. Maybe she's one of Vito's new acquisitions. You know his peculiar tastes... breaking them in before sharing."

The others joined in, their laughter low and meaningful. Elena recognized that sound—the prelude to violence, packaged as entertainment.

"Is that it?" Luca tilted his head, studying Elena. "Are you Vito's girl? Here for us to... inspect?"