Chapter 2
Jail. Interrogation room. Metal table. One flickering light.
The room smelled like sweat, mold, and cheap power.
The chair under me creaked every time I shifted. The cuffs around my wrists were gone now, but the bruises they left were still fresh.
Across the table sat a man in a black uniform.
Not a cop.
Worse.
One of Marco Vercetti's private enforcers.
He had the badge. The authority. And none of the accountability.
"Name," he barked.
I stared.
He slapped the table.
"I said your fucking name."
"Emily Stonebrook," I said quietly.
He leaned forward, breath sour, eyes sharp. "You think you're clever? Think you're untouchable? You assaulted four of our boys. One's in a coma."
My voice was flat. "They attacked me."
"And what about the man in the alley, huh?" he spat. "You think we don't know what the fuck you did?"
I stayed quiet.
He laughed. Cold. Mean.
"You really thought you could lay a finger on Vercetti men and walk away? Bitch, you're lucky you're breathing."
He slammed a folder on the table. My school file. My part-time job slip. My scholarship papers. Photos. Printouts.
"Scholarship girl," he sneered. "Working a minimum wage job. Deadbeat rent. No family. No one to fucking miss you."
I nodded slowly.
"That's true," I said. "I was abandoned at two. Bounced through thirteen foster homes before I turned ten. Got into Northvale on a full academic ride. I work nights to afford food. I sleep four hours a day. I haven't bought a new pair of shoes in two years."
I looked up at him.
"I just want to graduate."
He stared at me.
Then slammed his fist on the table so hard the lamp above us shook.
"Stop deflecting!" he roared. "You're gonna answer me or I'll kill you right here and now, I don't give a shit whose fucking student you are—"
I sighed.
Cutting him off without even raising my voice.
"You got your phone?"
He blinked.
"What?"
"Your phone," I repeated softly. "Google something."
He paused. Confused.
I waited.
Slowly, he pulled the phone from his pocket. Still glaring at me.
"Search," I said, eyes steady, "Anna Maricella."
He scoffed. "What the fuck is this—"
But he typed it in anyway.
And when the screen loaded—
He froze.
His pupils shrank.
His lips parted, just barely.
"What the fu—"
I stood up.
Picked up the gun on the table he left resting near the folder.
Aimed it calmly.
And then—
Silence.
The room stayed quiet.
I adjusted the cuffs on my sleeves, sat back down.
Then folded my hands like I was waiting for someone to bring tea.
I didn't check the body.
Didn't need to.
Because he made the mistake they all make.
He thought I was just another poor girl.
Interrogation room. Five minutes after the shot.
The door slammed open.
Two officers rushed in—hands on their guns, eyes wide.
The body was slumped in the corner, blood pooling beneath his shoulder, the phone still glowing with the name Anna Maricella on the screen.
One cop stuttered, "Wh—what the fuck did you—what the fuck just—"
The other didn't even finish his sentence.
His eyes locked onto mine.
He stepped back.
Like just looking at me might get him killed.
"Who the fuck... are you?" he whispered.
I didn't answer.
I just stood.
And walked past them like the walls didn't exist.
Fifteen minutes later...
They handed me my things in a plastic bag.
No charges.
No questions.
No eye contact.
I walked out of that police station to the sound of my own boots on the tile.
Free.
No mugshot. No record.
Just silence.
Because they didn't want to know what came next.
Home.
Back in my apartment.
Same cracked window. Same flickering lightbulb. Same unwashed hoodie hanging on the chair.
I tossed my bag on the bed, sat down at my desk, and opened my laptop.
Notes. Diagrams. Code.
I studied.
Because that's what I do.
Even after blood.
Even after lies.
Even after death.
I still had a midterm next week.
I still had rent due in five days.
And I still had a long way to go before the world knew my name.
But tonight?
Tonight, I made a move.
I reached for my phone.
Created a new Instagram account.
@stonebrook
No bio. No posts.
Just one story.
A black screen with white text.
"We back up, baby."
Next Day...
Northvale High. Front Gate.
I should've known something was off when the black SUVs rolled up before first period.
Not the cheap ones.
The kind that screamed mafia money. Windows tinted like secrets. Tires cleaner than most students' souls.
The doors opened.
Marco Vercetti.
Real-life boogeyman. Untouchable. Ruthless. Sharp suit. Snake eyes.
Right behind him—
Valentina.
Back in her element. Leather jacket. Boots. Cold expression. Cigarette tucked behind one ear like a crown.
And surrounding them?
At least twelve men.
All armed.
All watching me.
I didn't move.
Marco stepped forward, adjusting his cufflinks like this was just another business meeting.
He smiled.
But it wasn't warm. It was the kind of smile you see before the lights go out.
"I heard what happened at the station," he said calmly. "Impressive."
I didn't respond.
Valentina didn't speak either. Her jaw was locked tight, her eyes dark.
Marco tilted his head.
"But let me be clear, Emily Stonebrook. Whatever game you think you're playing, it ends now. You stay out of my family's business. You don't look at my daughter. You don't breathe near my men."
I kept my face still. Blank.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
"And if someone throws your homework in the trash or reminds you that you're just a perfect little orphan slut who got lucky enough to wear shoes—"
His smile widened.
"You take it. You bleed. You don't fight back. Or next time, we don't call the cops. We clean it up ourselves."
The guards all shifted.
One cracked his knuckles.
Valentina finally looked at me.
But her face was unreadable. Cold. Like the girl who stuttered at the diner never existed.
Too many men.
Too many guns.
Too early in the morning for this shit.
So I just nodded.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Just—
"Understood," I said quietly.
And then I walked past them.
Like none of it mattered.
Because I had a test in second period.
And I had better things to do than explain myself to people who were already terrified of what they didn't understand.
Lunch break. School courtyard. Sunny. Loud. Ugly.
I just wanted to eat.
But they didn't want that.
As soon as I sat down, the crowd started circling. Like sharks sniffing blood.
"Hey, Rentgirl. Forgot your paper plate today?"
"She probably eats debt for lunch."
Someone dropped a half-empty juice box on my tray.
More laughter.
I didn't look up.
Because that's what they wanted. Eye contact. Reaction. Tears.
Valentina walked up last.
Late entrance. Perfect timing.
Boots crunching on the gravel like her presence needed sound effects.
She took a drag from her cigarette and exhaled it right above me, watching the smoke swirl down toward my face like poison.
"Didn't know orphans were allowed to eat," she said casually.
Everyone laughed. Too loud. Too fake.
She leaned down. Her voice lowered to a whisper—meant for me and only me.
"You ever wonder why your real parents gave you up?" she asked. "Maybe they saw you. And realized... nothing was worth keeping."
I froze.
But not in pain.
Not in fear.
Just... patience.
She grabbed my tray and shoved it into my lap.
Food spilled everywhere.
"You're gonna cry this time, right?" she asked.
Then came the shove.
Hard. Unforgiving.
Back slammed into the wall behind me.
Laughter.
Phones recording.
"C'mon," she said. "Cry for me, orphan girl."
I looked up.
And smiled.
Just a little.
And then I spoke.
Voice low. Calm.
Deadly.
"You know what's funny, Valentina?"
She blinked.
I took a step forward.
Just one.
"You've got power. Wealth. Guards. A last name that makes grown men piss themselves."
Another step.
"And yet..."
I tilted my head, eyes locked with hers.
"You wake up every single day... and the first thing you think about is me."
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Valentina's smirk dropped—just a little.
I didn't stop.
"Why do you need a whole army to break one girl?"
I leaned closer.
"Unless you're scared of her."
She flinched.
Just barely.
I wasn't done.
"I know what I am. I've bled for it. Worked for it. Starved for it."
I took another step forward—now chest to chest.
"And you? You're just a rich girl wearing daddy's reputation like armor. Without it, you're nothing but another insecure bitch picking on people who make you feel small."
Her pupils shook.
The crowd? Dead silent.
I tilted my head.
"You wanted me to cry, Valentina?"
I smiled again.
Soft.
Almost sweet.
"I stopped crying the day the system tossed me into a cage and forgot to feed me."
Then I turned.
Picked my tray up.
Brushed food off my hoodie.
And walked away.
Leaving Valentina standing there—
completely silent.
Period. AP Calculus. Test Results Returned.
The paper hit my desk with a soft thwap.
I looked down.
100%.
Again.
Not that I doubted it. I'd solved most of the problems in my head before even picking up the pen.
The girl behind me muttered something about "teacher's pet," but I didn't react. I didn't need to. My work spoke loud enough.
After class, I stayed back. Not because I wanted to talk—but because Mrs. Caldwell asked me to.
She was one of the few teachers who didn't look at me like I was a liability.
"Emily," she said, pulling up a chair beside my desk. "You know you're top of every ranking in this school, right?"
I nodded.
Quiet.
Flat.
"You've already met the requirements for early applications to schools like MIT, Stanford, CalTech," she continued. "Hell, with your GPA, even Harvard and Princeton would take a serious look—especially with your story."
I stayed still.
She hesitated.
"I know you don't like talking about... home life," she said gently. "But if you let me help write your personal statement—"
"I don't want pity points," I said.
She blinked.
I looked up.
"I just want to get out."
Mrs. Caldwell studied me for a moment. Her expression softened.
"Well," she said, tapping my paper, "keep scoring like this, and you won't just get out—you'll run the world you walk into."
I nodded once.
That was the goal.
Not revenge. Not power. Not love.
Just...
freedom.
Evening. On my way to Sweet Peaches Diner.
The streets were quiet again.
Too quiet.
I walked with my hood up, apron folded in my bag, headphones in with no music playing. Just enough to make people think I wasn't paying attention.
But I always was.
I had a math quiz tomorrow. Rent in four days. A chemistry worksheet still unfinished.
Too much to do. Too little time.
I turned the corner near the alley behind the diner—
And froze.
Too late.
A van door slid open.
Black. Tinted. No plates.
Footsteps behind me.
Shit.
I spun, but they were faster.
A hand wrapped around my mouth.
Another grabbed my waist.
Something sharp jabbed into my neck.
A sting. A burn.
My vision blurred.
Panic buzzed under my skin like static, but my body... wouldn't move.
"Got her," one of them muttered. "Boss said bring her in quiet."
I couldn't speak.
Couldn't scream.
The last thing I saw was the van door closing.
The last thing I heard was the hum of the engine.
And then—
Black.