Chapter 2

Six days had passed since I coughed blood all over the basement floor. Six days in that dark room.

New York's first snow came early this year—and it came hard. Cold air knifed through the gaps in the window frame, cutting into me like razors against bone.

The disease was draining my body heat faster than I could hold on to it. I pulled the thin blanket tighter, but the shaking wouldn't stop.

Bang.

The door slammed open.

A bodyguard filled the doorway, eyes flat. "The boss is waiting. You walking, or am I dragging you?"

That was my life. The daily routine of a dying prisoner.

I changed into a black dress long enough to cover the bruises on my arms and followed him into the blinding light of the dining hall.

At the far end of the long table, Victor and Lilia were already seated.

A diamond necklace glittered at Lilia's throat. Victor held a steak knife, cutting into a medium-rare filet with no particular hurry.

"Sit." He didn't look up.

I took the seat farthest from them.

In front of me sat a slab of Kobe beef, barely seared. When I pressed the knife in, red juice pooled across the white porcelain.

"Eat." Victor raised his eyes—sharp, cutting. "You used to love expensive things. What, too good for it now?"

I didn't argue. I sliced a small piece still webbed with red and placed it in my mouth.

The taste of raw blood exploded across my tongue. My stomach seized like I'd swallowed a fistful of glass, but I forced it down, jaw clenched against the nausea.

My face stayed flat as dead water. Victor scoffed.

Then he turned to Lilia, and his expression shifted—something soft, almost tender.

He speared the most delicate piece from his own plate and lifted it to her lips. "Open up."

The smell of blood pulled something loose in my chest. A memory I couldn't stop.

That year in the slums. Another night of blinding snow.

My nineteenth birthday. I'd mentioned—just offhand—that I wanted the strawberry cake from the corner shop.

Victor had nothing back then. For twenty dollars, he walked into an underground fighting ring and let men use him as a punching bag for three rounds.

He shoved open our rotting door drenched in blood, hands shaking so badly he could barely hold the paper box.

His blood dripped from his fingertips onto the white frosting. And at the bottom of the box lay a ring bent from a soda can tab.

I cried and cursed him, clinging to his battered body. "These hands can fight. They can hold a gun. You don't wreck them over a fucking cake."

He grinned through split, purple lips.

He wiped my tears with the back of his clean hand and slid that metal ring onto my finger.

"Evelyn, if you want it, I'd give you my life." His voice was wrecked but sure. "When I have money, I'll buy you the biggest diamond in New York."

The memory cut through me like a gutting knife.

The man across from me now wore a bespoke suit. Those hands—the ones he'd once gambled his life with for me—were long and clean. Not a single scar.

And he was using those clean hands to feed another woman. The one wearing the diamond at her throat.

The broke kid who would've died for me was long gone—buried in a blizzard in the slums.

"Come here. Pour Lilia's wine." Victor's cold voice dragged me back.

I set down my fork and rose on numb legs. I'd barely stepped closer when—

Click.

A sharp, brittle snap.

Lilia shrieked, clutching the broken necklace, diamonds scattering across the table. She turned to Victor with reddening eyes. "Victor, that was your gift to me! She walked past and ripped it off!"

I looked at the pieces dangling from her fingers. "I didn't touch her."

Victor shot to his feet. My silence lit him up like a match to gasoline. He closed the distance in two strides, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and hauled me toward the back garden.

The glass door crashed open. Wind and snow hit my face like a slap.

Crack.

His palm connected with my cheek—full force. He had no idea how brittle my bones had become.

I spun off my feet and crashed into the snow. My ears rang. Rust flooded my throat.

"You think you're still the woman I'd have died for?" He yanked me up by the collar, his face inches from mine. "A whore who sold everything for money—who the hell are you to be jealous of Lilia?"

Snow fell on my face and melted. I looked into his eyes—consumed, corroded—and felt something close out inside me.

Jealous? I was already dying. There was nothing left to fight over.

"You're right, sir." I didn't struggle. I pulled up a smile with nothing behind it. "I'm trash. So—can you let go? It's cold out here."

Victor froze.

He stared into my eyes, searching. They were vacant. No resentment. No anger. Not even his reflection lived there anymore.

His grip loosened without him meaning it to.

"Let her kneel." Lilia stood in the warm glow of the doorway, looking down at me. "She gets up when my necklace is fixed."

Victor's throat worked. He said nothing.

He looked at me one last time—long, hard—then turned away. "She doesn't get up until I say so."

Slam.

The glass door shut, cutting off the light completely.

I knelt in the snow. My kneecaps burned with cold, and the pain in my stomach peaked all at once.

I doubled over and retched—raw meat and dark blood pouring into the white.

Pure white. Violent red.

I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand, scooped up a fistful of clean snow, and scrubbed until my fingers were clear. Then I straightened my spine and held still against the wind.

Eighty-three days left.