Bleeding for a Prince's Game

I slid into the back of a black, armored car sent by the Hawthorne family. I opened my phone and logged into an encrypted dark web forum, accessible only to core members of Chicago’s underworld.

A stickied post on the homepage was generating a firestorm. The title read: The Valachi Prince Returns—Isabella Ricci Secures Her Throne as Queen.

I clicked on the thread. It was filled with photos and videos from last night's party at The Royal Palace.

In one video, Heath was on one knee, placing the ring on Isabella's finger. Isabella, a bashful smile lighting up her face, threw herself into his arms.

The comments section had exploded.

Someone had posted: What about that intern he was using as a shield? Heard she ruined her hands stitching up thugs for three years to pay for his ‘recovery.’

Isabella Ricci's own account had replied directly: Just a cheap little bandage. Heath says she’s annoyingly clingy—it’ll take some effort to ditch her. But I’m sure a hundred thousand dollars will have her crawling gratefully back to whatever shithole she came from.

Another comment followed: Poor thing. She's been played and has no idea. His leg was never even hurt—he hired a special effects artist to fake the whole thing.

A hundred thousand dollars. The words burned my eyes.

For three years, to buy the imported medicine that was supposed to heal his leg, I sold my rare blood type on the black market. My arms were a roadmap of needle marks. I lost my hair in clumps from the constant blood loss.

I thought I was saving the man I loved.

To them, I was just a joke. A bet. A convenient tool to sidestep an arranged marriage.

My phone lit up. It was a message from Heath.

Holly, my leg feels a lot better today. The Capo said I did a good job—he might promote me. As soon as I have enough saved, we'll move somewhere better and get married.

He followed it with a photo. He was wearing blood-stained gloves, a one-dollar burger clenched between his teeth.

I stared at the photo, my eyes dry. I didn't cry. I dialed Sal Gallo's number.

"Sal, take me to the estate. Tell the Don I'm ready to take my place in the family."

At three o'clock that afternoon, I sat in the study of the Hawthorne estate and signed the final power transfer documents.

The family's Consigliere stood beside me, respectfully handing me a file.

"Miss Hawthorne, the Valachi family is facing a massive financial deficit. They are heavily dependent on our arms shipments through the docks. Without our support, they'll be devoured by rivals within a month."

I flipped through the file, my fingertip brushing over Heath Valachi's name.

"Inform all the Capos. Cut off all cooperation with the Valachi family," I said, closing the folder, my voice steady.

The Consigliere paused for a moment, then nodded. "Understood. However, the Valachi family is hosting a return banquet tonight at The Grand Palazzo Hotel. The Don of the family personally sent an invitation, hoping for a Hawthorne representative to attend."

"The Don will not be attending. I will go in his place."

I stood and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the city sprawled below.

Heath Valachi, since you love games so much, let's play a real one.

That evening at seven, a stylist dressed me in a dark green haute couture gown. Around my neck, I wore the Hawthorne family heirloom—a cascade of emeralds.

Staring in the mirror at the cold, striking woman before me, I could hardly recognize the girl who once ate stale bread in a basement.

I picked up a deep red lipstick and slowly, deliberately, painted my lips.

The game was about to begin.