They forced me to kneel on the shards.

Pain sliced through my skin. I gasped as glass embedded in my knees.

"Count to one hundred," Pietro snapped.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. They stood over me. Watching. The compound lights threw their shadows long across the ground, and somewhere behind them the house was warm and lit and I could smell the dinner still on the table.

Nadina smirked behind them.

By the time they reached a hundred, I was faint from blood loss.

Pietro tossed my bag at me.

"Fucking useless bitch."

"Next time you touch Nadina, I'll kill you myself," Giacomo added. His right fist clenched and unclenched at his side, as though the violence he'd already dealt still wasn't enough.

They walked away.

I staggered to the side wall, pulling glass from my knees, barely holding back screams.

I tore an old dress hanging outside and wrapped my knees. I refused to let this stop me. If anything it made me want to cancel my identity more. My thumb found the inside of my left wrist without thinking, pressing into the skin there, and the fresh pain in my knees joined the older pain that never fully left.

I hailed a cab and went to the immigration office. I was attended to immediately by a junior agent.

"Are you sure about this? Once we sign these documents, Liliana Russo doesn't exist again," the agent said.

I nodded. "That's what I want."

He asked for my passport and I handed it over as he scanned it when suddenly red lights flashed, sirens blared, and alarms echoed through the room.

"What's happening?" I asked.

Men in black surrounded me. Guns holstered. I was seized, dragged into a cold, sterile office.

"What are you doing? I didn't do anything!"

Officer Lombardi slammed the passport down. He tapped his badge once with his index finger, the gesture of a man who believed the institution made him untouchable.

"Fake document. Fraud. You're under arrest."

I was stunned as I stuttered. "No—Giacomo Russo gave me that passport! Call him. He'll explain—"

He picked up the phone, pulled up the registry system, then dialed.

Giacomo answered. "Russo residence."

"Mr. Russo, this is Officer Lombardi, Immigration and Customs. A woman named Liliana Russo—she claims you gave her this passport. Can you confirm that you know her?"

There was a pause.

Then Giacomo's voice—calm, composed, merciless.

"I don't know anyone by that name."

I screamed. "Giacomo! It's me! Please—"