Three days of recovery feel like three years.
Rosa tends to my bruises with clinical efficiency ice packs, antiseptic, bandages. She doesn't ask questions or offer comfort; she gives only competence. I appreciate it more than I should.
The withdrawal hits on day two.
My body aches in ways I didn't know were possible. Cold sweats, nausea, a crawling sensation under my skin as though something alive is trying to escape. My mind fractures into sharp, jagged thoughts that cut before I can catch them. Rosa gives me water, bland food, and silence. She doesn't judge. She just waits.
By day three, the worst has passed. I'm hollow, but functional.
Luca doesn't visit. I don't expect him to.
The dress Rosa leaves out resembles what I wore at Eden's Ruin red silk meant to be noticed. But this one is sharper, more expensive. Armor disguised as seduction.
Rosa watches as I prepare myself piece by piece, becoming Prinel the dancer again. Prinel the asset.
"Be careful," she says quietly as I reach the door. It's the first unprompted thing she's said in days.
I nod, though I'm no longer sure what being careful really means.
Eden's Ruin looks the same, but I'm different.
The bass doesn't disorient me. The lights don't blind me. The crowd doesn't suffocate me. For the first time, I'm actually seeing the place the hierarchy, the flow of power, the tells that divide predators from prey.
Riot stands in his usual spot, scanning the floor. When he sees me, something flickers across his face—relief, possession, anger that I'm still alive.
"Prinel," he says, careful. "You're back."
"I'm back." I don't flinch when he touches my face, tracing the fading bruises.
"Moretti took good care of you, it seems." There's an edge to his voice a question he won't ask aloud.
"He explained what happens to girls who disappoint valuable clients," I reply, meeting his stare. "I won't disappoint again."
It's the right thing to say. His grip on my chin loosens.
"Good. Volkov's coming tonight. VIP room." His eyes harden. "And this time, Prinel, you're going to make him very happy."
My stomach tightens, but I smile. "Of course."
Volkov arrives with two men brutish, tattooed, dangerous.
He doesn't recognize me at first. I'm just another body. Then recognition dawns, and something cruel blooms in his eyes.
"The broken one," he slurs, reaching for me. "They fixed you."
I let him. I let him pour alcohol down my throat. I let him talk. Men like Volkov, once drunk, use women like confessionals like we aren't real, like we won't remember.
He rambles about territory. Expansion. A deal in motion.
"Riot's man?" Volkov barks a laugh. "Riot's got big plans. Bigger than Moretti thinks. We're going to take this fucking city."
Cold ripples through me.
"Riot works for Moretti," I say softly.
"Not anymore." Volkov grabs my face, forcing my gaze to his. "Riot's tired of being second. Tired of being owned. So he came to us, Rashevsky's people. Soon, Moretti will learn what it means to be challenged."
I file this away. Moretti needs this.
"That's dangerous," I whisper. "Moretti will kill him."
"Moretti will be dead," Volkov says simply. "And Riot will run Milan."
His hand slides down my body the shift in intent abrupt and unmistakable.
"You're going to make me forget last time," he murmurs, voice sinking into something feral. "Or I'll make sure you remember it forever."
He shoves me toward the couch. I stumble.
One of his men the massive one with a scar tearing down his face watches me with hungry interest.
"Pretty," he says in Russian-accented Italian. "Volkov, can we ?"
Volkov waves a hand. "She's mine tonight."
But the scarred man moves anyway, testing boundaries. His hand closes around my wrist, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
That's when the door bursts open.
Alessio stands in the threshold, presence sharp as a blade. Behind him, Moretti lingers in the shadows.
"Release her," Alessio says, voice devoid of emotion.
The scarred man hesitates, then shoves me away. My dress tears at the seam.
"Just having fun," he mutters.
"Downstairs," Alessio orders. "Now."
Volkov doesn't argue. None of them do. They file out in silence.
Alessio's eyes sweep over my disheveled dress, fresh bruises, shaking hands before he turns.
"Don Moretti requests your presence at the penthouse," he says. "Immediately."
Then he's gone.
The penthouse is darker tonight.
Only one lamp glows, casting Moretti in partial shadow near the window. His tie is loosened, sleeves rolled. There's something feral about him that contained violence, coiled tight.
He doesn't turn when I enter.
"Tell me what you heard."
I tell him everything Riot, Rashevsky, the expansion, the betrayal. As I speak, his posture shifts in small, dangerous ways: the flex of his jaw, the slow curl of his fingers.
When I finish, he finally looks at me.
His gaze travels down my body, slow and assessing the bruises, the torn dress, the fingerprints on my skin.
"Did he hurt you?" His voice is too soft. Too dangerous.
"He was going to," I say. "Alessio interrupted."
His jaw locks. He crosses the room in three strides, and I step back but there's nowhere to go.
"Show me," he says.
"What?"
"Where he touched you."
It feels like a test. A dangerous one.
Slowly, I lift the hem of my dress, revealing the bruises blooming across my inner thigh.
Moretti stares at them. His breathing shifts slower, heavier contained only by will.
"You did good work today," he says finally, voice low. "Your intelligence was valuable. You confirmed what I suspected about Riot." His hand slides to my waist, drawing me closer. "That makes you more valuable than I expected."
Relief doesn't come. Something else does, something tighter.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now?" His hand lifts to my jaw, tilting my face up. "Now you understand something, Prinel. You're not a commodity. You're not Riot's. You're not Volkov's."
His grip tightens not painful, but warning.
"You're mine," he says quietly. "And anything that touches what's mine dies."
Terror skims through me. Beneath it something more dangerous. Something almost like safety.
"I don't understand," I whisper.
"You don't have to." His thumb strokes my cheekbone, gentle and threatening at once. "You only need to understand that when someone puts their hands on you the way Volkov did "
He leans in.
"I will burn their world to ash."
He pulls back, eyes no longer cold something darker flickers beneath.
"Go to Rosa," he says. "Get cleaned up. Rest."
I turn, but his hand catches my wrist.
"Prinel."
I look back.
He doesn't speak. He just holds my gaze for a long, unreadable moment something unspoken passing between us before he releases me.
And leaves.