At the stroke of midnight, my soul drifted upward from the cold concrete floor of the wine cellar.

The heavy mahogany door to my bedroom was slammed open. My brother Luca strode in—the future Godfather of the Falcone family. Surveying the empty room, he let out a sneer through his nose.

"How old are you, playing run-away-from-home? Elena, what kind of princess tantrum are you throwing now?"

If this were any other time, I would have retorted with a sharp barb of my own.

But this time, I merely hovered silently by his side, unable to make a sound.

Luca dialed my private number; the receiver yielded only a busy signal. Impatiently loosening his expensive silk tie, he flipped open the black leather notebook resting on my desk.

That page contained only a single number: 99.

That was the number of times the family had chilled my heart over the years.

Luca didn’t understand it at all. Frowning, he tossed the notebook onto the carpet like trash and pressed the voice message button.

"Stop playing these boring mind games. Bella wants the biscotti you make, so get your ass back here and bake them!"

"Today is the celebratory banquet for her official takeover of the West District Casino. I dare you to ruin this day. You have one hour to drag yourself back to the manor, and I’ll pretend this never happened."

Luca pocketed his phone and returned to the brightly lit living room. "Elena isn’t in her room, and she’s not picking up," he announced to our parents, who sat at the head of the table. "She’s always like this—gloomy, making a fuss over nothing, playing disappear simply to make us beg her to come back."

"We’ve spoiled her," Father, the terrifying Don Salvatore, finally spoke, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "No one is to use family resources to look for her this time. She needs to be taught a lesson. Let her cool off outside; she’ll crawl back on her own by tomorrow."

Bella leaned in, gently linking her arm through Father’s—the family’s most doted-upon youngest daughter. Her face was written over with worry: "Daddy, don’t say that. What if something actually happened to Big Sister? After all, there are so many people outside who want to target our family. Should I send her a text?"

She lowered her gaze, the very picture of an innocent, docile white rabbit.

I watched as she pulled out her diamond-encrusted phone, her slender fingers tapping on the screen.

[Hope you're getting thoroughly used by those Russians. Which gutter rat are you sluming it with now? By the way, the party is amazing. Thanks for not being here to be an eyesore. It would be even better if you just died out there.]

After sending that, she deleted the message and typed a new line.

[Sister, are you okay? We are worried sick. If you’re angry with us, take it out on me. Please, just come home.]

She held up the phone for everyone to see, perfectly performing the role of the considerate, loving sister.

Mother pulled her into an embrace, her voice dripping with pity: "Bella, you are always so kind. This has nothing to do with you; it’s all Elena being immature. She has none of the Falcone dignity."

Immature?

A bitter laugh spilled from the depths of my soul.

In their eyes, there was only ever Bella. Who would remember that today was the day I was supposed to submit the "Annual Expansion Strategy" to the Family Council? That was the fruit of six months of my blood and sweat.

Knowing they would all be celebrating Bella’s nominal "takeover ceremony," I had told them not to bother listening to my report.

I never wanted to fight Bella for their affection.

But just as I was preparing to leave for the Council, three Russian hitmen from a rival gang had broken in, dragging me into the soundproof underground wine cellar.

I had struggled desperately, terrified. "The manor's security system is top-tier; how did you get in?"

One of the tattooed men had dangled a golden access card in front of my face. It was Bella’s.

"Don't waste your energy," he had grinned savagely. "You aren't walking out of this cellar today."

"I swear I won't tell anyone. Please, don't kill me... as long as you let me go..."

In the end, they ignored my pleas. They pinned me down, torturing me in the most cruel ways, carving my face with daggers, and snapping countless photos amidst their filth to use as leverage against the family.

I fought to the death. In the struggle, my head slammed heavily against the iron corner of a display rack. Blood sprayed out instantly.

Seeing I was no longer moving and fearing too much trouble, they fled in a panic.

Using my last ounce of strength, I dragged my broken body toward my phone, dialing for help with blood-stained fingers.

Family members all wear vital sign monitoring rings, but the signal on mine had been cut long ago. They thought I had turned off the GPS just to seek attention.

Not only did they reject my call, they even sent a message:

[Playing dead again? Stop acting! The Godfather has no time for your drama! We’ve already blocked your emergency frequency!]

Only my fiancé, Dante, picked up.

"Save me... Dante, I'm dying..."

His reply was cold and sharp: "Elena, put away your theatrics. Today is Bella's big day. There should be a limit to your attention-seeking! Didn't I say I'd make it up to you with a gift?"

But... Dante, I was already dying.

A trace of a bitter smile floated to my lips. What a pity. You will never have the chance to make it up to me.

Within twenty-four hours, the stench of rot would drift from that wine cellar where no one ever set foot.

Bella always said she wished I would die so no one would compete with her for the family inheritance.

Now, she had gotten her wish.