Chapter 3

Vivienne's POV

Water from my fingers dripped onto the newspaper, and the ink blurred slightly.

At first, I couldn't even make out what the article said—only a few words kept stabbing into my eyes over and over: "Ashford," "execution," "whereabouts unknown."

Father was portrayed as a greedy fraud, the family written off as a joke that deserved its downfall, and I became the missing "only daughter."

Someone was looking for me.

Not to save me.

To snuff out the last living witness.

"Hey, what are you spacing out for!"

The woman beside me barked, and I jolted awake. I immediately crumpled the newspaper into a ball. The paper's edge scraped against the cut on my hand, making my fingertips tremble with pain, but I still gripped it tightly and quickly shoved it into the deepest part of my skirt pocket.

"Nothing." I lowered my head, trying to keep my voice steady.

But my heart was racing too fast. A layer of cold sweat slowly seeped out across my back, making the coarse fabric stick to my skin.

I stared at the hot water churning in the wooden tub, white foam and grime floating on the surface, reflecting a face so pale it looked like a stranger's.

That face bore no resemblance to the girl in the newspaper.

The Vivienne Ashford in the newspaper was already dead.

But if someone recognized me...

I suddenly gripped the wet cloth in my hand tighter, my knuckles turning white.

No.

I couldn't die here. And I certainly couldn't die like a rat, my name written into the papers as a punchline for people to flip past while eating breakfast.

I pressed the cloth hard into the water, the veins on the back of my hand standing out.

Survive.

No matter how much dirty laundry I had to wash, no matter how much humiliation I had to swallow, I had to survive.

I hid that newspaper all day.

I'd folded it very small and pressed it into the hem at the waist of my skirt. The corner of the paper rubbing against my skin was a painful reminder not to lift my head, not to let anyone connect the bejeweled girl on the front page with the woman now covered in cuts and reeking of soap.

But just after dusk, they started searching the ship.

First, the door to the lower deck was kicked open. Several of Moretti's bodyguards burst in, rifle butts smashing against bed frames as they dragged people up one by one. Children cried, women screamed, men cursed, and the next second they were beaten bloody.

The already rotten smell of sweat in the air was suddenly mixed with the more choking odors of muddy boots and gun oil.

"Everyone stand up! Heads up!"

Autumn and I were yanked from our bunks. She instinctively tried to shield me, but I grabbed her wrist and forcibly pulled her half a step behind me.

An Italian man with stubble, clutching several newspapers, walked slowly past the crowd.

He wasn't looking at those dirty, trembling faces—he was looking at hair, eyes, bone structure.

Then he stopped in front of me.

I pressed my chin down, my hair falling forward, my fingers gripping my skirt tightly.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and forced my face up.

My scalp hurt so badly my vision went black, but I still made no sound.

He stared at my face, then looked down at the newspaper in his hand.

The Vivienne Ashford on the front page, smiling stupidly, locked eyes across a few days' time with this pale, gaunt, stained face.

But my eyes were still there, and so was my mother's detestable bone structure—things that couldn't be washed away with a few buckets of dirty water.

"Madonna." He grinned. "I knew something was off about this little bitch."

Autumn lunged forward. "She's not—"

The bodyguard raised his hand and slapped her, sending her crashing to the floor. Her cheek swelled rapidly, the corner of her mouth split open.

"Don't touch her!" My voice exploded on the spot. I took a step forward, and a gun barrel immediately pressed against my forehead.

The cold metal pressed against bone, and I froze completely.

Another man had already started searching me. He roughly yanked at my waistband, his fingers fumbling through the lining, and seconds later he pulled out the soft, worn newspaper I'd hidden there.

When the paper unfolded, my photograph was exposed.

"Found it." He sneered. "She even kept this herself."

My throat was full of the taste of blood. That was something I'd secretly kept to prove my family had once existed.

But in their hands, it would only become a noose.

The stubbled man rolled up the newspaper and patted my face with it. "The person Boss was looking for was hiding in the laundry room playing maid. Fucking interesting."

"Boss wants to see her?"

"See her?" Another man laughed coldly. "Boss doesn't have that kind of free time. He wants someone who can't talk."

The stubbled man grabbed my arm and dragged me out from the crowd.

Autumn lunged again, this time kicked in the abdomen, curling up on the ground unable to catch her breath.

When I looked back, she was staring at me hard, her eyes full of bloodshot veins.

She still wanted to speak. I looked at her and shook my head slightly.

Don't speak.

Don't die with me.

I straightened my spine and followed them out. At least this way she'd know I hadn't completely broken down.

The corridor was long and narrow, the ship's hull rising and falling with the waves, the lights swaying back and forth.

I was dragged all the way deeper inside, iron doors closing behind me one by one. Finally they shoved me into an abandoned storage hold at the bottom of the deck, and the lock clicked shut.

Inside there was only the smell of damp wood and the fishy scent of seawater. Every time the hull swayed, the chains on the wall rattled softly.

My wrists still ached. My back pressed against the cold iron wall, and I suddenly heard a tremendous roar explode overhead.

It wasn't the sound of the cruise ship's engines.

It was a helicopter.

The propellers churned up the night wind, making the entire cruise ship seem to tremble under that force.

The deck shook violently, dust falling from the ceiling in streams. I instinctively looked up, my heart suddenly constricting.

Both men who'd dragged me here changed their expressions at the same time.

"Cazzo..." The one on the left drew his gun first, sweat already visible on his temple.

The other quickly pressed himself against the door, listening to the commotion above, his voice extremely low. "Boss sent people to clean up."

Salvatore wanted me dead.

Not brought back to New York, not kept locked up, not used to bargain for something. He put me on this ship just to let the sea swallow the last living evidence clean.

Father, Mother, the blood of the Ashford family, the lies in the newspapers—all could be wiped clean, as long as I died in this ocean.

My fingertips went numb, but my teeth gradually clenched tighter.

No.

I couldn't just wait here to die.

I forced myself to shift my gaze away from those two armed men and quickly scanned the entire hold.

On the left were stacked broken wooden crates, behind them a round porthole—too small, with iron bars nailed beside it. On the right were iron hooks for tying ropes, an empty oil drum in the corner, and scattered on the floor were half a broken plank and shattered glass.

There was only one door, and outside the sound of footsteps was chaotic, growing denser.

Suddenly a short gunshot came from above.

Then a second, a third.

The corridor erupted into chaos all at once—men's shouts, running footsteps, and the explosive sound of bullets hitting metal walls merged into one continuous noise.

Both bodyguards simultaneously glanced back at me. The next second, someone outside screamed and fell, crashing heavily against the door, blood slowly seeping in through the crack.

My throat tightened, my back pressed hard against the iron wall.

The gunfire drew closer and closer.

It wasn't Moretti's men clearing the area.

Someone was killing their way down here.

From the direction of the stairs came urgent footsteps—steady, fast, without a trace of panic.

The last Moretti bodyguard outside the door had just cursed when his voice cut off abruptly, followed by a burst of close-range gunfire, as crisp as snuffing out a few matches.

Bang...

The cabin door was kicked open.

Cold wind poured in carrying gunpowder smoke and the smell of blood. My eyes stung, but I still looked up.

Standing in the doorway was a tall young man, his black coat hanging open, his shoulders dampened with night mist, the barrel of the gun in his hand still emitting faint white smoke. The dim yellow light cut across his deep features and finally settled into those eyes.

Pale gray.

Like a frozen lake in winter—thin, cold, bright enough to chill the heart.

My breathing hitched.

I had seen these eyes before.

Many years ago, under that tediously long corridor in the Moretti mansion.

Back then I still wore clean dresses, walked on soft carpets, and slowly descended the stairs.

In the courtyard there was a Russian boy pressed against the wall by two men, his mouth full of blood, his shirt back torn open in strips by a whip.

He kept his head down, like a wolf cub ready to bite someone to death. Someone called him a bastard, a hostage, a dog that couldn't be tamed.

I only glanced once.

Later, passing by the kitchen back door, I casually grabbed a piece of bread and tossed it to him through the railing.

He'd looked up then, his eyes the same way—cold enough to cut a person open.

I hadn't even asked his name.

And now, those eyes were fixed on me, unmoving.

He glanced at the two Moretti bodyguard corpses on the floor, then his gaze returned to my face, pausing for a moment. The corner of his mouth moved slightly, without any hint of a smile.

"Do you still recognize me?"

His voice was lower than in my memory, deeper, carrying a kind of power that didn't need to be raised to dominate the entire space.

My throat was dry. I made no sound.

My heartbeat was too fast, so fast my chest ached.

Save me? Capture me? Humiliate me? Or personally complete this final step for Moretti?

I couldn't tell at all.

The man before me was no longer the Russian boy pressed against the wall being beaten all those years ago.

He was now the youngest and most dangerous head of the Solovyov family.

He stood in the doorway, blood at his feet, fully armed men in black behind him, as if the entire night obeyed his command.

All I could do was lift my chin slightly, not letting myself look too pathetic.

He looked at me, his gaze terrifyingly heavy.

In the corridor there were still moans that hadn't completely died out. Dmitri didn't even turn his head, only spoke lightly: "Alexei."

Someone immediately responded from outside the door: "Boss."

"The rest of them—dispose of them all."