To Repay a Mafia Heir's Debt

"She knows her place, at least…"

"With a background like that, did she really think she was worthy of being our future Donna?"

"The Heir and Miss Camilla are a true match, a union of power!"

I quickened my pace, the hot sting of tears finally breaking free.

Late that night, I opened the safe deposit box. Inside were standard annulment papers.

"Dissolve the engagement… No, these won't do," I muttered to myself, studying the documents under the dim light. "What I need is leverage. A piece of classified intelligence that will allow them to forge a powerful business alliance."

This intelligence would allow Shelby to cement an even stronger alliance with Camilla's family, a bond of mutual interest far stronger than a marriage contract with a pawn like me.

He could have everything he ever wanted. All it would cost was my existence.

From the bottom of my suitcase, I pulled a forged passport and a plane ticket to the West Coast, prepared in the hazy days after I first woke up.

Staring at my own weary reflection in the mirror, I whispered, "Tomorrow, it will all be over."

"Shelby! Help me!"

A scream shattered the evening's tranquility.

Shelby and I were standing at the entrance to the planetarium, the city lights twinkling below us. The desperate cry made him go rigid.

"Camilla?" He whipped his head around.

"Mr. Giordano!" A disheveled woman stumbled toward us. It was Camilla's assistant, Anya. "It's Miss Camilla! She heard you were still going through with the marriage and she just… snapped! She's locked herself away!"

The color drained from Shelby's face. "Where is she?"

"At the Rostova family safe house…"

Without a single glance in my direction, Shelby spun on his heel. He took three long strides, then paused, his back still to me. "Wait for me."

Then he was gone, vanishing into the darkness.

I stood there, a bitter smile touching my lips. Same old Shelby. For ten years, it was always Camilla first.

Returning to my temporary residence, I retrieved the items from under my pillow—the forged passport and a plane ticket. The flight was for eight o'clock tonight, bound for a sleepy Californian seaside town three thousand miles away.

Tucked beneath the ticket was a small note in familiar handwriting: "Ticket confirmed, window seat. Have a safe trip, Aurora." It was from Father Michael.

He knew. He always knew everything.

I took a deep breath. It was time to face the hardest part of my plan.