Time. Route. Identity. Every thread had already been woven into place with surgical precision. Once the engagement ceremony concluded, I would disappear completely from the Ashford Crime Family's map—vanish like smoke through the fingers of men who believed they held everything. The waters south of the harbor lay outside every syndicate's shipping routes, beyond the reach of the Corleone enforcers and the Ashford soldiers alike. That abandoned island had once served as a transit point during the old smuggling era, now reduced to salt-weathered ruins and the ghosts of forgotten deals.
Jeris 'The Eraser' Bianchi would handle the cleanup. Bank records, surveillance backups, transit lists—none of them would retain my name. Every trace of Elena Ashford would be scrubbed clean, as though she had never drawn breath in this world of blood oaths and broken promises.
I would not be found.
"Elena?"