Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Tile
Thup.
The fourth bullet hit me.
It didn't feel like a sharp cut or a hot blade. It felt like being struck in the side by a heavy iron bar swinging at full speed. The impact slammed my body hard against the vinyl back of booth six, driving all the air from my lungs in a wet, ragged gasp.
A terrible, blinding heat bloomed instantly in my abdomen, spreading outward through my nerve endings like liquid fire. My legs gave out. I sagged downward, my knees hitting the floor, my shoulder dragging against Margaret Rossi's lap.
"Emma!" Margaret's voice broke—a sound stripped of all matriarchal poise, raw with real horror.
Above us, the bell at the diner entrance didn't ring. The heavy glass front doors didn't just open; they were shattered off their hinges as four heavy-set men in charcoal suits burst into the room.
At their head was Vincent Rossi.
Even through the blinding, white-hot haze of pain washing over me, I recognized him. Chicago’s papers called him a clean-cut real estate mogul, but the city’s quietest streets knew the truth. He was thirty-two, broad-shouldered, with severe, high cheekbones, dark hair soaked dark from the rain, and eyes the color of winter iron. He didn't look human in that moment; he looked like an avalanche given shape and purpose.
"TOMMY!" Vincent’s voice thundered through the diner—a roar so loud it vibrated the glass light fixtures above the counter.
Tommy O'Connor tried to raise the suppressed pistol to fire again, but he was already too late. Vincent closed the distance between the front door and booth six in three violent strides. He caught Tommy’s gun hand by the wrist, twisting it upward with a sickening, wet CRACK.
Tommy screamed, dropping the weapon. Before the shooter could hit the floor, Vincent caught him by the throat, driving him backward into the stainless-steel ice cream freezer. The heavy metal dented under the force of the impact.
"You brought a gun into my mother’s sight?" Vincent whispered. The tone wasn't loud anymore. It was a flat, freezing whisper that carried more terror than the gunshot had.
Vincent didn't draw a weapon. He didn't need one. He drove a heavy, closed fist straight into Tommy's jaw, then another into his ribs. Tommy went limp instantly, sliding down the side of the freezer, leaving a streak of dark blood against the brushed steel. Two of Vincent’s men grabbed Tommy by his coat collar and dragged his unconscious body out into the rainy alley behind the kitchen without a word.
Vincent didn't look at them. He spun on his heel, dropping to both knees on the black-and-white tile beside booth six.
"Ma," Vincent choked out, his large hands reaching out, checking her shoulders, her neck, her arms. "Ma, are you hit? Tell me. Where are you hit?"
Margaret was trembling, her hands covered in dark red wetness, but she shoved her son’s hands away.
"I'm fine, Vincent!" she cried out, her voice cracked with emotion. "It’s the girl! Look at the girl!"
Vincent’s iron gaze dropped from his mother to me.
I was lying on my side on the wet tile. My white apron was no longer white; it was soaked through with a deep, dark crimson that kept expanding over my stomach and side. My vision was beginning to narrow, dark edges creeping into the corners of my eyes like black ink dipping into water. I could hear the rain outside, the hiss of the diner's grill, and the sound of my own shallow, whistling breaths.
"Stay still," Vincent said. His voice was lower now, remarkably controlled, though I could see a muscle in his jaw working frantically.
He reached down, his large, warm hands pressing firmly over my side to stem the bleeding. The sudden pressure made my vision flash brilliant white, a scream tearing out of my throat before I could stop it.
"I know," Vincent murmured, leaning down so his face was inches from mine. His iron-grey eyes locked onto mine, holding my gaze with a terrifying, absolute focus. "I know it burns, Emma. Look at me. Don't look at the floor. Look at my eyes."
"How... how do you know my name?" I whispered, my voice barely a rustle of dry paper.
"My mother talks about you every Tuesday," Vincent replied softly, his hands holding heavy pressure against my wound, utterly unbothered by the blood staining his tailored cuffs and expensive gold cufflinks. "She says you make the coffee too strong and you never let her tip you properly."
A tiny, wet laugh escaped my lips, ending in a sharp cough that tasted like metal.
"Hold on," Vincent commanded. It wasn't a request; it was an order given by a man who had never been disobeyed in his entire life. "You took a bullet meant for a Rossi. Do you know what that means, little nurse?"
"I... I just wanted... her to be okay," I gasped, the coldness creeping up my arms, numbing my fingers.
Vincent looked down at his mother. Margaret was kneeling on my other side, her manicured hand holding my trembling right hand tightly.
"She dove across the table, Vincent," Margaret whispered, tears tracking through her foundation. "The man had his gun out. She didn't hesitate. She threw herself in front of me."
Vincent looked back down at my face. Something profound, dark, and irreversible shifted behind his cold grey eyes. It was like watching a heavy vault door slide shut and lock from the inside.
Slowly, without breaking eye contact with me, Vincent reached with his left hand into his vest pocket. He pulled out a dark velvet box, flipped it open, and extracted a ring.
It wasn't a dainty piece of jewelry. It was an antique platinum band, set with a massive, clear cushion-cut diamond flanked by deep red rubies—the Rossi crest band, worn by the matriarchs of the family for three generations.
Before I could process what he was doing, Vincent took my limp, blood-stained left hand. He slid the heavy platinum ring onto my fourth finger. It fit perfectly, cold and heavy against my skin.
"Vincent..." Margaret breathed, catching her breath. "That's your grandmother's..."
"She bled for you, Ma," Vincent said, his voice absolute, echoing off the diner tiles. "She belongs to us now. No one touches what belongs to the Rossi family."
He bent down, his lips brushing my forehead right at my hairline, where sweat had gathered.
"You survive tonight, Emma Parker," Vincent whispered against my skin, his grip on my hand locking tight around the ring. "You survive, and you become my wife. I give you my word. The whole city will bow to you for what you did tonight."
"I... I have to... take a quiz... on Thursday..." I mumbled, my mind floating away into a warm, quiet darkness.
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"You won't ever have to worry about a test again," Vincent whispered.
The white-hot pain finally receded, replaced by an overwhelming, heavy velvet sleep. The last thing I felt before I lost consciousness entirely was the heavy weight of the diamond on my finger and the solid, unyielding heat of Vincent Rossi holding me off the cold floor.
