The Canary Who Learned To Fly

I died on a Tuesday.

It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father.

I was twenty years old.

He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him—my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit—watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant.

He chose her. He always chose her.

And then, I woke up.

Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for.

This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London—an exile disguised as a severance package—I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice.

He didn't know he was talking to a ghost.

He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal.

He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder.

That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry.

She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts.

So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie.

I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane.

But I will not be a victim.

This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter.

This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

Chapter 1

Seraphina Vitiello POV

I stood before the man who called himself my father, clutching a one-way ticket to London, fully aware that in another timeline, this was the exact moment he had ordered the surgeon to carve my kidney from my body while I was still screaming.

The cardstock felt sharp against my thumb, biting into the skin.

It was a first-class ticket.

A generous severance package for a daughter who was no longer useful.

My father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit, did not look at me.

He was busy pouring a glass of scotch, the amber liquid swirling against the crystal tumbler.

"You leave on Tuesday," he said. His voice was flat. It was the same detached tone he used when ordering a hit on a low-level associate.

I looked down at my hands.

They were smooth. Unscarred.

But my brain remembered the phantom pain of a scalpel slicing through my skin.

I remembered the sterile, blinding cold lights of the operating theater.

I remembered begging.

I remembered looking into the observation window and seeing him standing there, watching me die so my sister could live.

That was the past life.

A life I had somehow reset.

In this life, I was still whole.

Physically, at least.

"Isabella needs her rest," my mother said from the corner of the room.

She was idly twisting the massive diamond ring on her finger. It caught the light, casting fractured prisms on the wall.

She did not look at me, either.

She was fixated on the portrait of Isabella that hung over the fireplace.

Isabella, the golden child. The future wife of the Capo. The face of the Vitiello family.

I was just the spare parts.

The blood bank.

The backup generator kept in the basement, only acknowledged when the main power failed.

"You understand why this is necessary, Seraphina," my father said, finally turning to face me.

He took a slow sip of his scotch.

"Dante Moretti is a powerful man. The alliance requires a perfect bride. You are... a distraction."

*A distraction.*

That was a polite way of saying I was a liability.

Because six months ago, during the territory wars, I had disappeared.

They thought I was hiding.

They did not know I was in a safe house on the outskirts of the city, stitching up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me *Sette*. Seven. For the seven stitches I had put in his shoulder.

When he recovered his sight, my father and Isabella got to him first.

Isabella claimed my actions.

She claimed my voice.

And Dante, the Ruthless Capo, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true.

He wanted the golden girl to be his savior.

Not the invisible sister.

I looked at the ticket again.

London.

It was an exile.

It was a death sentence for Seraphina Vitiello, the daughter.

But it was a birth certificate for someone else.

In the past life, I had fought.

I had cried.

I had begged them to let me stay. I had tried to tell Dante the truth.

And they had silenced me on an operating table.

This time, I felt nothing.

My heart was a block of ice in my chest.

"Understood, Father," I said.

The words tasted like ash.

My father blinked. He seemed surprised by my lack of resistance.

He expected tears. He expected a scene.

He did not know he was talking to a ghost.

"Good," he said, setting the glass down with a heavy *clink*. "Pack your things. Do not make a scene at the engagement party. You will remain in the background until you leave."

I turned to leave the office.

My mother finally looked up.

"Try to look less like a corpse, Seraphina," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "It upsets your sister."

I didn't answer.

I walked out of the heavy oak doors and closed them softly behind me.

I walked down the long hallway, my footsteps silent on the expensive carpet.

I was not going to London to die.

I was going to let them rot.

I was going to watch this house of cards burn, and I wouldn't even strike the match.

I would just blow on the embers.