Chapter 3
ELENA
Four years can feel like four centuries when every single day is spent rebuilding pieces of yourself that were shattered beyond recognition.
I used to measure time by trauma.
Now I measured it by progress.
I sat ramrod straight in the windowless briefing room on the seventh floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building — Federal Bureau of Investigation headquarters.
Eight other newly minted special agents sat around the long conference table with me.
New suits. New badges.
New identities stitched carefully over old scars.
The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee, printer toner, and polished metal.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everyone in the same pale, unforgiving glow that flattened emotions and exposed nerves.
My pulse thrummed steadily in my ears.
Audible. Real. Grounding.
Four grueling surgeries had restored what prison and violence had stolen from me.
My hearing had improved significantly — small microphones implanted behind both ears, neural calibration, expensive specialists flown in from Europe.
Thin silver scars curved discreetly behind each earlobe — reminders of the procedures that had cost my brothers millions.
My voice, too, had returned.
Not perfectly.
It was still slightly husky. Still careful. Still fragile around certain consonants.
But it was mine again.
I could talk to people without needing to read their lips.
I could hear the low murmur of conversation across the room.
I could respond without pausing to interpret silence.
Small miracles.
Expensive miracles.
The irony never stopped stinging.
My six foster brothers — Dario, Ethan, Luca, Marco, Nico, and Vito — ran one of the most feared and disciplined mafia syndicates operating out of New York.
The Voss family.
Their name circulated through law enforcement databases as an ongoing threat.
Organized crime. Money laundering. Arms distribution.
