Chapter 4

Three storeys beneath the Voss family’s private estate in Brooklyn sits an exclusive private club—the most prestigious private council venue for the city's entire mafia elite.

The place buzzes like a holiday celebration today.

Dons and top kingpins from New York's five major crime clans have all turned out, with representatives flying in all the way from Chicago too.

This is the annual Voss clan summit, the highest-calibre gathering on the New York mafia calendar. Every year, leading patriarchs from competing factions converge here to haggle over splitting profits from their underground criminal enterprises.

Elara clutches a sealed manila document envelope in her hand. Inside sit partial financial records detailing Seraphina's under-the-table deals with the Moretti family: dock revenue ledgers, transfer receipts for three separate offshore bank accounts, plus two confidential letters decoded from the Moretti clan's proprietary internal cipher.

She's long since made up her mind to lay all her cards on the table at this gathering and watch with her own eyes which he'll pick—family profit, or their sworn marriage bond.

Thick cigar smoke fogs the whole function hall as underworld bosses mill around in small groups chatting.

When the antique wall clock ticks round to four in the afternoon and the summit is due to kick off, Killian is still nowhere to be found.

A tedious half-hour drags by before the club's main entrance swings open.

Seraphina loops her arm intimately through Killian's, gliding into the ballroom draped in an extravagant formal gown, a smug, victorious sneer hidden deep in her eyes.

Killian strides up onto the central raised dais and grips the silver goblet, the symbolic artefact marking his authority as Voss clan Don.

Addressing every top underworld boss present, he booms out loud: "In my official capacity as Voss Don, I formally nullify all prior informal agreements to remarry Elara, and declare our blood-oath marital ties permanently severed with zero possibility of future renewal. The whole Voss organisation enters a full binding alliance with Moretti, and Seraphina alone will serve as my exclusive partner from today onward."

An explosive murmur erupts across the room, and the surrounding mafia lords lean in to gossip, their cutting jabs pricking straight into my ears.

 "Five betrothals, five cancellations—Elara's nothing but a throwaway stepping stone for Voss."  "The Rossi clan's fallen so far down the pecking order she tried to climb the ranks via marriage, only to end up with absolutely nothing." 

 "Back in old Rossi's prime, one stamp of his foot shook all of Sicily; even Killian's own father used to bow and scrape to him. Now his daughter throws herself at this man and gets tossed aside like a grubby old cleaning rag!"

"I'd say Killian's probably getting ready to marry Seraphina."

I've become the biggest laughing stock across New York's criminal underworld.

Countless mocking stares pin me to my spot in the corner, my face entirely blank.

Inside my overcoat pocket, my fingernails dig brutally into my palm until warm fresh blood seeps between my fingertips, the pile of carefully gathered evidence crumpling into a mangled mess in my clenched fist.

It's seven in the evening when I wander along the kerb of Fifth Avenue to clear my head.

My private mobile pings with an unknown MMS message, a candid intimate photograph sent straight from Seraphina.

She's curled up against Killian's chest, loose hair spread across the pillows, lips swollen and glistening from recent kisses.

Killian's arm wraps firmly around her waist, his thumb pressed hard into her bare collarbone.

And the bedding beneath them? White fabric streaked with faint grey stripes, marked with an indelible dark bloodstain in the bottom right corner.

That's my bed linen. Three years ago, on the night Killian was shot, I'd held him tight waiting for paramedics, and his bleeding wound soaked right through this very coverlet.

I'd kept hold of it all these years—it was the one solitary night he'd mumble "Don't leave me" while resting in my arms.

Now Seraphina is wrapped in my old blanket, lying in the bed that once belonged to me, sending this photo as a blatant trophy boast.

Her accompanying text reads only one line: "He says you're deadly boring in bed, so he's swapped you for someone far more entertaining."

I stare fixed at the phone screen for a full ten seconds.

I drift aimlessly down empty roadways, my mind numb and unfocused, completely oblivious to incoming traffic.

As I step out over a crossroads, an out-of-control heavy lorry crashes through safety railings and roars straight in my direction.

Back at the private club where Killian is signing off on new partnership contracts, a frazzled subordinate bursts in mid-meeting to interrupt him.

His right-hand man Marco barrels into the room, panic etched all over his face: "Boss, dreadful news!"

 "Miss Elara's been caught in a horrific lorry crash. She died!"