Elena Vitiello POV

The penthouse was silent. It was a sprawling glass cage in the sky, overlooking a city that looked like a circuit board of gold and darkness.

My phone buzzed on the marble counter. A text from Dante.

Won't be back. Handling the situation. Don't wait up.

I didn't reply. I deleted the thread. Then, I went into my contacts and deleted his number. I didn't block him-that would draw attention-I just removed the name. He was nothing more than a string of digits now.

I went to the master closet, a mausoleum filled with designer gowns, silk blouses, and shoes that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. I walked past them to the small safe in the back. I punched in the code and took out a burner phone and a flash drive.

This was the real Elena. The rest was just a costume.

I sat on the floor and began the digital scrub. I logged into the joint accounts and removed my authorization. I cancelled the recurring orders for his favorite Barolo. I unlinked my email from the estate's security notifications. Piece by piece, byte by byte, I was erasing myself from the Moretti infrastructure.

My finger hovered over the Instagram icon on my personal phone. I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't.

I opened it.

Sofia's story was at the top. Of course it was.

I tapped it. A photo of a yacht deck. A bucket of crystal-chilled champagne. And in the corner of the frame, a hand resting on the railing. I knew that hand. I knew the scar on the knuckle, the heavy gold signet ring bearing the Moretti crest.

Safe and sound, the caption read. My hero.

He wasn't handling a crisis. He was drinking champagne on a boat while his wife sat alone in an empty apartment.

It was my birthday.

I closed the app. I walked to the kitchen, the silence amplifying the click of my heels on the tile. The staff had left for the night; I had dismissed them early. I opened the fridge. There was nothing prepared. Dante usually ordered from the best Italian restaurant in the city on Fridays, but he wasn't here to order.

I found a box of dried pasta and a jar of sauce. I boiled the water. The steam hit my face, hot and damp, mimicking the tears I refused to shed.

The front door beeped.

I froze. He wasn't supposed to be back.

Dante walked in. He looked disheveled, a rare state for him. His tie was loose, his top button undone, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the forearms I used to cling to. But as he moved closer, the scent hit me. He smelled of sea salt and that cloying vanilla perfume.

He stopped when he saw me standing over the stove. He held a small white box in his hand. A bakery box.

"You're cooking?" he asked, frowning.

"I was hungry," I said, my voice flat as I stirred the pasta.

He walked over and placed the box on the island. "I picked this up. On the way back."

He opened it. It was a small vanilla cake. Generic. No writing. It looked like something an assistant would buy at a grocery store five minutes before closing.

"Happy birthday," he said. The words felt heavy, forced.

I stared at the cake. He remembered. Or rather, his calendar reminded him, and he felt a twinge of obligation strong enough to stop at a bakery but not strong enough to stay home.

"Thank you," I said.

He looked at the pot of boiling pasta, bubbling violently. "That's dinner? For a birthday?"

"It's fine, Dante."

"It's pathetic," he muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Get dressed. We'll go out."

"I saw the photo," I said.

He paused. His hand fell to his side. "What photo?"

"The yacht. Sofia's story."

He didn't even flinch. "She was shaken up. We needed to get her away from the city for a few hours until the threat was neutralized. It was protocol."

"Protocol involves champagne?"

His eyes narrowed, the gold flecks hardening. "Don't start, Elena. I am tired. I spent the last four hours cleaning up a mess so the Family doesn't look weak. I came home to spend the last hour of your birthday with you. Don't make me regret it."

Make him regret it. As if my existence was a burden he graciously tolerated.

"I'm not hungry anymore," I said. I reached out and turned off the stove. The bubbling died instantly.

His phone rang again. The sharp trill cut through the tension. He looked at the screen and sighed-a sound of pure, unadulterated exhaustion.

"I have to take this," he said. "It's the Consigliere. It's about Sofia's security detail."

"Go," I said.

"Elena-"

"Go, Dante. It's fine."

He hesitated. For a second, I thought he might see me. Really see me. See the woman who had loved him since she was sixteen, the woman who had written his name in journals and prayed for his safety when he went to war.

But he just nodded. "I'll make it up to you."

He turned and walked out.

I stood in the silence of the kitchen. I looked at the cheap vanilla cake with its waxy white frosting. I reached into the drawer and pulled out a single match. I struck it against the box. The flame flared, bright and hot, consuming the oxygen.

I stuck the match into the center of the cake like a candle.

"I wish," I whispered to the empty room, watching the flame burn down towards the frosting. "I wish to stop loving you."

I blew it out. Smoke curled into the air, grey and vanishing, just like us.

Elena Vitiello POV

The heavy thrum of the music pulsed through the floorboards of the VIP lounge. It was a private club, supposedly neutral ground for the Families, but tonight the Morettis had rented the entire top floor.

I sat next to Dante on the crushed velvet sofa. His arm was draped along the back of the seat behind me-never touching me, but aggressively claiming the space.

It was a territorial display. This is mine. Do not touch.

The room was thick with smoke and the sharp clink of expensive crystal. The Capos were laughing, while the soldiers stood like statues by the doors. It was a celebration of the alliance anniversary.

"Alright, bring it out!" someone shouted over the noise.

A heavy wooden box was heaved onto the central table. The Time Capsule.

Five years ago, during a truce party, the younger generation of the Families had written letters to their future selves. It was a stupid tradition, something Sofia had insisted on back when she was the center of Dante's world.

I felt a prickle of cold sweat break out on my neck. I had forgotten about this.

"Let's see who predicted the future!" Marco, one of Dante's soldiers, laughed as he cracked the seal.

He pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Sofia... wants to be a movie star."

Laughter rippled through the room. Sofia wasn't here yet. She was always late.

Marco reached in and pulled out another one. He unfolded it, and then he froze.

He paused. He looked at me, then at Dante. The drunken grin faded from his face.

"Read it," Dante commanded, taking a slow sip of his whiskey.

Marco cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "It's... it's from Elena."

Dante glanced at me. I stared straight ahead, my nails digging crescents into my palms.

"Read it," Dante repeated, his voice lower, leaving no room for argument.

Marco unfolded the paper completely. His voice was hesitant. "I don't know if he will ever see me. I am just a shadow in the corner of the room. But today, he looked at me. He saved me from the riot in the East End. He doesn't know my name, but I know his. I love him. I love Dante Moretti. I pray that one day, I can be the one to wash the blood from his hands, even if he never loves me back."

The silence in the room was absolute. It was heavier than the bass, louder than the shouting had been moments before.

I felt stripped naked. Five years ago, I was a naive girl with a diary. Now, those words hung in the air like a confession of a crime.

Dante slowly set his glass down. He turned his head to look at me. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were wide, stunned. It was the first time I had ever seen him look truly struck, like he had been punched in the gut.

He opened his mouth to speak. "Elena..."

My phone didn't ring. His did.

It shattered the moment like glass. Dante flinched. He looked at the screen.

He didn't answer it immediately. He looked at me again, searching my face, looking for the girl who wrote that letter.

The phone rang again. And again.

"Boss," Marco whispered, the tension palpable. "It might be urgent."

Dante answered. He put it on speaker.

"Dante! Help me! Please!" Sofia's voice shrieked through the quiet room. "They have guns! I'm at the warehouse district! They're going to kill me!"

The shock vanished from Dante's face. It was replaced instantly by the mask of The Reaper. The beast woke up.

He stood up so fast the table shook. "Marco, get the team. Now."

"Dante," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

He didn't hear me. He was already moving, checking the clip in his handgun. He was a blur of lethal motion.

"Stay here," he barked at me over his shoulder. "Don't move."

He ran out the door, his soldiers swarming after him. The room was suddenly empty, save for a few confused waiters.

I walked to the balcony. The rain had stopped. I looked down at the street.

I saw Dante burst out of the club entrance. I saw him pistol-whip a bouncer who was too slow to get out of his way. He jumped into his car, tires smoking as he peeled out.

I watched him go.

He had heard the depth of my soul, the raw, bleeding truth of my love for him. And the moment another woman cried wolf, he left me in the silence.

He didn't rush out to save family. He rushed out because he couldn't breathe if she wasn't breathing.

I took the letter from the table. I tore it in half. Then in half again.

I dropped the pieces into an ashtray and lit them on fire.

"Goodbye, Dante," I whispered.

Chapter 4

Elena Vitiello POV

I was in the middle of shoving a silk blouse into a small duffel bag when I heard the front door slam downstairs.

It was 3:00 AM.

Panic flared, hot and bright. I kicked the bag under the bed and snatched a book from the nightstand, arranging myself against the headboard with practiced ease, as if I had been reading all along.

A heartbeat later, Dante kicked the bedroom door open.

He was covered in blood. Most of it didn't belong to him. His knuckles were split, the skin raw and weeping, and his white dress shirt hung in ruined tatters.

He looked less like my husband and more like a demon who had just clawed his way out of the pit.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, his chest heaving. He stared at me, his eyes wild, pupils blown wide from adrenaline.

"You're awake," he rasped.

"It is hard to sleep when the house feels like a bunker," I said, my voice unnervingly calm.

He walked to the dresser and threw his gun down. It landed with a heavy, final thud against the mahogany. He began to strip off his ruined shirt, peeling the fabric from his sticky skin.

"It was a trap," he said. "Rival gang. They used her as bait."

The air in the room grew thin.

"Is she safe?"

"She's at the hospital. Minor injuries. Shock."

He turned around. There was a long, ugly slash across his back. It was shallow, but bleeding sluggishly, a red grin across his olive skin.

I sighed, closing the book on a chapter I hadn't read. I got up, walked to the bathroom, and retrieved the first aid kit.

This was the ritual. This was the vow I had made in that foolish letter years ago. To wash the blood from his hands.

"Sit," I ordered.

He obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. I cleaned the wound with antiseptic. The smell of alcohol mixed with the metallic tang of fresh copper. He didn't flinch. He was made of stone.

As I began to stitch the skin, the silence was shattered by light. His phone, sitting on the nightstand, illuminated the dark room.

An email notification.

Flight Confirmation: SFO. One Way.

My breath hitched. I had been careless. I hadn't cleared the notification.

Dante's hand shot out, fast as a viper, grabbing the phone before I could react. He stared at the screen.

The oxygen left the room.

He turned slowly, ignoring the needle still threaded through the skin of his back. "San Francisco? One way?"

I didn't blink. I forced my heart to beat a slow, steady rhythm.

"Shopping," I said. "Your mother authorized it. She wants me to scout some art for the new gallery opening in the Bay Area. The return flight is booked separately because I don't know how long the acquisition will take."

It was a flimsy lie. A terrible lie.

But Dante nodded. He put the phone down. "Okay."

He believed it. Not because I was a good liar, but because in his world, the concept of me leaving was an impossibility. I didn't have agency. I was the furniture. And furniture doesn't buy one-way tickets to freedom.

I finished the stitch and cut the thread with a sharp snip. "Done."

He stood up and turned to face me. The adrenaline was fading, leaving him with a different kind of energy-darker, heavier. He looked at me with a strange intensity.

"The letter," he said, his voice rough like gravel. "At the club."

"It was a long time ago, Dante."

"You loved me," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a discovery, a trophy he had just polished. "Before the marriage. You loved me."

"I was a child," I said, snapping the first aid kit shut. "Children have foolish dreams."

He stepped closer. He smelled of copper, sweat, and violence. He reached out, his rough thumb brushing my lower lip.

"And now?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. "Do you still dream?"

"I don't dream anymore," I said, meeting his gaze. "I just sleep."

He leaned in. He wanted to kiss me. He wanted to claim me, to validate the ego boost he had gotten from that resurrected letter. He wanted to fuck the devoted wife who adored him.

I turned my head sharply. His lips brushed my ear instead.

"No," I said.

He froze. He pulled back, a frown marring his handsome, blood-splattered face. "No?"

"I'm tired, Dante. And you smell like her perfume."

It was a low blow. But it was the only weapon I had left.

He stiffened. He looked at me-really looked at me-searching for the submissive girl he thought he owned. He didn't find her.

"I'm bleeding," he said, gesturing vaguely to his back, his tone bordering on petulant. "I need comfort."

"I stitched you up," I said, walking to the other side of the bed. "That is maintenance. Not comfort."

I climbed under the covers and turned my back to him, pulling the duvet up to my chin.

"One day, Dante, you're going to come home bleeding, and there won't be anyone here to patch you up. You should learn to do it yourself."

"You aren't going anywhere," he muttered, turning off the light. The room plunged into darkness.

He got into bed beside me. The heat radiating off him was immense, like sleeping next to a furnace.

He draped his heavy arm over my waist. He pulled me against him, trapping me.

I lay there, stiff as a corpse. It was the last time he would ever hold me.

And the tragedy was, he didn't even know he was holding a ghost.