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."

Chapter 1

The moment I pressed the 'Confirm' button on the university portal, my life in Chicago was over before my heart even had a chance to stutter.

The screen flashed a sterile green banner: Enrollment Finalized: Columbia University, New York City.

My hands didn't shake.

They should have.

I was Elena Vitiello, the only daughter of the Chicago Outfit's Underboss, raised in a gilded cage where loyalty was the only currency that mattered, and betrayal was a debt paid in blood.

Moving to New York wasn't just a transfer.

It was a defection.

Because New York belonged to the Famiglia. It belonged to Dante Moretti.

Even a thousand miles away, the name tasted like gunpowder and aged scotch—acrid, rich, and lethal.

And I was voluntarily walking into his lion's den. Because the wolves in my own house had already started to eat me alive.

My phone vibrated against the mahogany desk. A new notification from Instagram.

It was Sofia.

The caption read: VIP treatment at the Gala. So grateful for my boys.

I tapped the photo.

There she was, standing between Luca Rossi and Matteo Bianchi.

My Luca.

My Matteo.

They were my sworn protectors, the soldiers who had cut their palms and mixed their blood with mine when we were ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me.

In the photo, Sofia was wearing a white silk gown.

My custom-made gown.

Around her neck hung a string of rare pink pearls.

My mother's pearls.

The ones kept in the biometric vault in my wing