Chapter 1
Cold water splashed across her face, jolting Elena from her restless sleep.
Elena's eyes snapped open to see Guard Agnes standing by the iron door, empty bucket in hand, wearing that familiar expression of cold indifference Elena had come to know over three long years.
"Rossi," her voice held no warmth, "you're being released today. Pack your things."
Elena's body trembled violently. For a moment, she thought she must still be dreaming—three years of whippings, ice-cold water dousing, endless kneeling in prayer and confession had long since crushed any hope of leaving this place.
Elena's fingers clutched the thin blanket, disbelief flickering across her pale face.
"I... I can leave?"
Agnes didn't answer, simply turned and walked away. Elena struggled to rise from the bed, but her legs, numb and weak from years of forced kneeling, gave out beneath her. She crashed onto the cold stone floor.
Her palms scraped against the rough surface, drawing blood, but Elena barely noticed the pain. Only one thought consumed her mind—she could finally leave.
Agnes stood in the doorway, watching with cold eyes, making no move to help Elena up.
Gritting her teeth, Elena summoned every ounce of strength to pull herself upright, grabbing the small bundle beside her bed. Inside was only one set of old clothes—the same outfit she'd worn when she first arrived three years ago.
"Follow me."
Elena followed her out of the cell, bare feet touching the dark, damp corridor.
The winter detention center was cold as a tomb, and Elena's body shook uncontrollably. The hallway was lined with closed iron doors, each hiding prisoners like herself.
"Agnes," Elena's voice was hoarse from three years of silence, "this isn't the way to the main gate."
"There's an important visitor coming today. The main gate isn't for the likes of you," she said without looking back.
Elena's heart sank. An important visitor? Who could it be? Two names flashed through her mind—Marco De Luca, her childhood protector and closest friend, or perhaps some elder from the Rossi family. After three years, maybe they were finally willing to take her in for old time's sake.
Elena couldn't bear to imagine it might be him. It absolutely couldn't be him.
They finally reached a small door. Sunlight streamed through the crack, painful to Elena's eyes—after three years, she'd almost forgotten what sunlight looked like. Agnes pushed the door open, and winter wind rushed in.
Elena stood in the doorway, staring at the empty alley outside. No one. No cars. Only cold wind swirling fallen leaves.
Disappointment washed over her like ice water.
Elena opened her bundle, finding nothing inside except those old clothes.
She had worked in the detention center for three years, earning nine cents a day. After deducting money for medicine and hygiene products, she should have saved several hundred dollars.
"Agnes," Elena turned around, "where are my wages?"
She let out a cold laugh. "Wages? You think this is a charity? Medicine and hygiene products cost ten times the outside price. Your so-called savings were depleted long ago."
Elena's fingers gripped the bundle tightly, nails digging into her palm. She should have known—in this place, even basic dignity was a luxury, let alone fairness.
"Then... could you spare a few coins?" Elena lowered her head, voice barely audible. "I have no money for the bus."
Agnes pulled two one-dollar coins from her pocket, dangling them in front of Elena.
Elena reached out to take them, but Agnes suddenly opened her hand. The coins clattered to the stone pavement.
"Pick them up yourself."
Elena stared at the coins on the ground, sharp pain shooting through her knees—three years of forced kneeling had permanently damaged them.
Elena tried to bend down, but her body was stiff as wood. Finally, she had no choice but to slowly kneel, trembling fingers picking up the two coins.
Agnes's laughter echoed above her. "Look at the former Rossi family princess, now having to kneel to pick up money."
Elena clutched the coins tightly, not looking up.
The door slammed shut behind her.
The bus stop was two blocks away. Elena changed into the old clothes—a gray sweater and faded jeans that had fit her three years ago but now hung loose on her skeletal frame.
Elena stuffed the prison uniform into her bundle, not wanting anyone to recognize where she'd come from.
The bus arrived. Elena dropped in her coins, wanting to sit in the front leather seats that looked warmer.
"Hey!" the Black driver glared at Elena with disgust. "What's that smell? Get to the back!"
Every passenger turned to stare at Elena. She saw the revulsion and contempt in their eyes, heard someone whisper, "It's a convict... a murderer..."
Elena lowered her head, stumbling toward the back of the bus. The vehicle lurched forward suddenly, and Elena nearly fell, bumping into a middle-aged woman.
"Don't touch me!" she screamed, shoving Elena away. "You're filthy!"
Elena shrank into the last row of cold metal seats, curling into herself. Outside the window, New York's streets flashed by—skyscrapers, shops, pedestrians—a world she had once known but now felt completely alien.
"Elena, I want you to live your entire life under God's judgment. Even after your father is dead, you will spend your life atoning for your sins!"
The voice from three years ago echoed in her ears. Dante Moretti standing in the courtroom, those cold black eyes fixed on her, pronouncing her fate word by word.
Then he had turned and walked away, never looking back.
Elena closed her eyes, burying her face against her knees. Don't think about him. Don't think about him.
Meanwhile, at the main gate of the women's detention center, a black Cadillac slowly came to a stop.
Dante Moretti stepped out of the car, dressed in a charcoal gray Italian tailored suit, a cigar clenched in his hand.
The warden and several guards immediately rushed forward, faces plastered with obsequious smiles.
"Mr. Moretti, what an honor..."
"I'm here to pick someone up." Dante cut him off, his voice cold as a blade.
The warden nodded eagerly. "Of course, of course. Which prisoner, sir?"
"Elena Rossi."
The warden froze, flipping through the list in his hands. His expression changed.
"Mr. Moretti... Miss Rossi... she was released this morning."
Dante's fingers tightened, the cigar nearly crushed in his grip. "When?"
"About... two hours ago," the warden said carefully. "She left through the side door."
"Who picked her up?" Dante's voice dropped to a dangerous low.
"No one picked her up, sir. She left on her own."
Dante turned to his assistant Angelo. "Find her. Track down where she went. Now."
