THE FLOWERS AREN'T AS SOFT as I thought they would be.

Once, when I turned eighteen, I went skydiving. It isn't something I've told anyone-if Nathan knew, he'd spit at me that it was a waste of money.

But as I land, knees bent, body braced, I can't help but be thankful, for the little rebellion I waged that day.

Blood drips into my eye, and I blink away the burning wetness. My bones feel as though they've collided together and my head pounds as though I've given myself a concussion.

The possibility isn't altogether unlikely.

But the worst of the pain pulses from my ankle. The adrenaline coursing through me is fading, quickly, too quickly. I need to move. Now.

I limp forward. I hear shouts overhead. My hair is tangled with dandelions, and I can't breathe, can't think-all I can do is move, keep moving . . .

There is a wrought-iron gate in the distance, and tall, thick green bushes cover the sides. I can hide there. I need to hide.

My breath escapes in harsh, heavy pants. Come on. Come on. My ankle feels strange, loose. But I don't look down, because I know what I'll see, and I can't stop.

Please, I think, looking up. Blood dribbles into my eye, but I don't blink this time. Please let me go.

Almost to the bushes. If I get there, I can lose myself in the greenery. When a car opens the gate, I'll run like hell.

Dominic's face flashes in my mind. I hate him, but a brief pang of worry rolls through me. I hope he's not dead. I hope I didn't kill him.

I think of Violetta for one small, precious moment-but I shake my head viciously. Does she know Dominic betrayed me? Is she a part of it?

They sold me out to the Angel.

They sold me out to the most dangerous Mafia boss in the city.

Tears mingle with the blood, and my eyes sting. But no-I can't be weak. I can't cry. I just need to make it out of here alive.

The leaves shroud me, offering little comfort. I'm certain I've left a trail of blood, so I keep moving. Branches claw and scratch at me. I taste leaves and tree bark.

Keep moving.

I try to be as quiet as possible as I dart through the perimeter of the house. Through the leaves, I can see where I am: the magnificence of the mansion surely belongs to someone grand, luxurious. It's old, I can see that-but it retains a sense of grandness, of royalty.

Angel Falcone.

I try to slow my racing heart at the thought of what he would do with me. What would he even want from me?

I don't want the chance to find out. I need to keep going until I can find better cover. In the dead of night, I'll climb over the wall.

With a snapped ankle and one clear eye, I don't know how I'll manage. But I have to, because there's no other way of leaving here alive

When Dominic wakes up, he'll want revenge. That's for certain.

I need to be long gone before that happens.

Suddenly, I spot a commotion near the house. I see a man being dragged towards the house, kicking and screaming. He looks familiar. He sounds familiar.

Dante. Dante Rosso.

The leaves rustle noisily as I move closer. For a second, I forget to care.

I open my mouth to scream his name.

Then two hands are on me and I feel the hot breath of a man sneering.

"Caught you, little bitch," he says against my neck. I thrash, but it's no use. My supply of adrenaline is gone, and I can feel the waves of pain from my ankle, roiling through my body.

Don't faint. Don't faint.

I can't help it. I faint.

WHEN I WAKE UP, there is a man waiting for me.

I don't recognize him until he speaks. "Hello, Cadenza."

The man with the hot breath, his fingers trailing up my throat.

Immediately, I feel sick. I fainted, and he was alone with my unconscious body. Memories of Nathan flit through me, and I throw up over the side of the bed.

I realize this isn't the same bedroom as before. This time, there are bars over the windows. They've Cade-proofed this room.

I feel worse.

My escape attempt failed, and now they're ready for anything I have up my sleeve . . . which is nothing.

Breathe. Breathe. Before I can try something, anything, the man speaks. He looks old, around thirty, and rough stubble coats his jaw. His hair is slicked back in a greasy wave, the way they did it in the seventies. He is wearing a pale yellow dress shirt. There are spots of blood near the collar.

"I have to take you to see the Angel now," he says, his eyes flickering.

He looks like he had other things planned.

With a start, I realize there's a security camera. For the first time, I feel slightly relieved. He wouldn't have been bold enough to try something with someone watching . . . would he? No, men like him are sly, cowardly.

"I don't want to," I say, scrambling back towards the headboard. But then I feel something around my wrist, tethering me. A handcuff.

If there was no way to escape before, there certainly isn't now.

The man doesn't seem to care. "Call me Andre," he says. "And what the Angel wants, the Angel gets."

He looks almost apologetic.

My breathing stills. If the Angel is the boss in this place, then he's the worst of them. I can't see him. I can't be alone with him.

But there is nothing I can do, not as Andre unlocks my handcuff. Briefly, I consider punching him. It's only a delaying of the inevitable, though. I control myself.

As we walk through the halls, it strikes me again at the luxury of this place. It looks like a palace, built for a kings and queens, something that would have been made a hundred years ago. The marble is bright, sand-coloured, and shiny. The walls are gilded white. The chandeliers drip from the ceilings.

I try not to remark every detail of the route we use, but I can't help it. Art major, remember?

At last, Andre takes my upstairs. The air here is colder, darker. The lights are off, and I notice it is evening now. The pink dusky sky is brilliant outside.

After I walk into this room, will I see it again?

I shake my head, trying to ignore the fear thrumming through my body. Andre opens the door to a room, and I see someone, turned around on the other side.

There are two chairs in the middle of the room, and that's it. The walls are red, and the floor is black, shimmering marble.

What is this? An interrogating room? A torture chamber?

For some reason, as Andre closes the door behind me, the figure of the person strikes me as odd. It's slimmer than I thought, even slender. And that backside-I drag my eyes up guiltily.

I can't be eyeing the ass of a man who will most likely kill me.

But then the person turns around.

And it isn't a man.

I breathe, "Violetta."