The Betrayed Princess's New Reign

Luca POV:

The automatic doors of the JFK VIP terminal slid open.

I pushed the brass luggage cart out into the brisk New York air. I wore a five-thousand-dollar bespoke suit, my hair slicked back. Matteo stood beside me, leaning heavily on the cart, wearing a matching suit. We were Lieutenants of the Chicago Outfit. I expected a convoy of black armored SUVs and a dozen armed guards waiting at the curb to escort us.

I scanned the chaotic pickup lanes. Nothing. Not a single vehicle bearing the New York Outfit’s crest.

I yanked at my silk tie, a hot flash of irritation burning my chest. "This is how they treat diplomats? They have no respect."

Matteo winced, shifting his weight. Standing for this long was putting agonizing pressure on the socket of his prosthetic leg. He was breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead.

We stood on the curb for thirty humiliating minutes.

Finally, a beat-up, rusted grey Chevrolet Impala screeched to a halt in front of us.

The window rolled down. A low-level New York street thug wearing a stained leather jacket was chewing gum loudly. He didn't even put the car in park. He just jerked his chin at the backseat.

A wave of intense, blinding humiliation hit me. I took a step forward, my fists clenching, ready to drag the disrespect out of his throat.

Matteo grabbed my sleeve. "Luca, don't. We are in New York. Play the game."

I swallowed my pride. It tasted like ash. We dragged our expensive leather bags to the back of the Chevy and shoved them into the tiny trunk. We squeezed into the backseat. The car reeked of stale beer and cheap cigarettes.

The Impala jerked forward, joining the gridlocked New York traffic. We didn't get a police escort. We didn't get green lights. We sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic for an hour.

The car didn't head toward the glittering skyscrapers of Manhattan. Instead, it pulled into the rotting outskirts of Brooklyn, stopping in front of a rundown, neon-lit motel. The sign flickered, half the letters burned out.

"Out," the thug grunted.

"Where is the Underboss?" I demanded.

"Boss is busy today," the thug said, popping a bubble. He slammed his foot on the gas and sped off, splashing dirty puddle water onto my polished shoes.

I stared at the peeling paint of the motel. My chest heaved. I drew my fist back and slammed it into the metal trash can on the corner. The dent echoed in the empty street. I was the Prince of Chicago, and they were treating me like a stray dog.

We walked into the lobby and got a key. Room 104.

The room smelled like mold and bleach. The carpet was covered in suspicious, dark stains.

I pulled out my phone to call Chicago, to scream at the Underboss for this insult. No service. My phone was completely dead. We were cut off.

We sat in that suffocating room for the entire day. No one called. No one came. We were entirely forgotten by the world.

By evening, the temperature plummeted. A freezing, violent rain began to lash against the city.

The motel window didn't close properly. An icy draft cut through the room. Matteo curled into a ball on the lumpy mattress, groaning in agony. The cold dampness was causing extreme phantom pains and nerve inflammation in his stump.

I stood by the drafty window, watching the bleak, gray rain. A creeping sense of dread settled in my stomach. I was powerless here. I reached into my pocket, my thumb rubbing the velvet box of the cheap diamond ring. Panic tightened my throat.

Suddenly, twin beams of blinding LED light cut through the dark street.

A massive, pristine black Rolls Royce Phantom glided through the flooded street, ignoring the potholes, and stopped dead in front of our door.

An armored SUV parked directly behind it. Four men in long black trench coats stepped out. They moved with terrifying, lethal precision. They wore invisible earpieces and carried themselves like apex predators.

They opened massive black umbrellas, standing in two perfect lines in the downpour.

One of the guards walked up to the motel. He didn't knock. He raised his boot and kicked the flimsy glass door open.

He marched up the stairs and shoved my room door open. He stared at me and Matteo with absolute, freezing disdain.

"Mr. Moretti has granted you ten minutes at Le Bernardin tonight. Be ready."

My heart leaped into my throat. The despair vanished, replaced by a sudden, manic joy. This was it. The motel was just a test of my endurance, a mafia hazing ritual.

I rushed to the bed and pulled Matteo up. I frantically smoothed the wrinkles out of my bespoke suit. I patted my pocket, feeling the ring box.

"See?" I whispered to Matteo, a twisted smile stretching across my face. "I told you she couldn't forget us."