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.

Chapter 5

Elena Vitiello POV:

I shoved the heavy, iron-like weight of Dante’s arm off my waist. The sudden movement pulled at my sore muscles, and a sharp gasp escaped my lips. My entire body ached, a physical reminder of the brutal, suffocating grip he kept on me even in his sleep. I rolled off the edge of the mattress, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor.

Behind me, Dante let out a low, irritated growl. His hand grasped at the empty space where I had just been. Even unconscious, the Mafia boss couldn't stand losing his grip on his possessions.

I walked toward the bathroom, keeping my steps completely silent. I carefully stepped around his discarded, blood-stained dress shirt lying on the expensive rug. The metallic stench of dried blood hit my nose, churning my stomach. I hated the violence. I hated the constant smell of death that clung to him.

I locked the bathroom door and gripped the edges of the marble sink. My face in the mirror was pale, my eyes dead. I turned on the cold water tap, splashing the freezing water over my face to wash away the disgust crawling over my skin.

But the smell wouldn't wash off. Beneath the copper scent of blood, the bathroom air carried the heavy, cloying scent of Tom Ford Midnight Orchid.

Sofia’s perfume.

My stomach clamped down violently. I bent over the sink, my hands gripping the porcelain so hard my knuckles turned white, and dry-heaved.

The sound of the running water masked the noise of the bedroom door opening. Dante shoved the bathroom door wide open. He stood in the doorway, his dark hair messy, his eyes heavy with sleep and a dark, morning irritation.

He stepped up behind me, his massive chest pressing against my back. He wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his heavy chin on my shoulder. His lips brushed against the side of my neck, seeking the warmth of my skin.

I turned my head away instantly. I grabbed a dry towel and pressed it against my face, creating a physical barrier between us.

Dante’s movements stopped. His body went completely rigid. I watched his reflection in the mirror. The sleepy softness vanished from his blue eyes, replaced by a cold, hard stare. He looked at my flat, emotionless expression, his jaw ticking.

A sharp ding from the private elevator outside the master suite shattered the dangerous silence.

A moment later, Maria, the head housekeeper, knocked on the bedroom door. "Mr. Moretti. A guest is here to see you," she said. Her voice carried a thin layer of dismissal. The staff knew the wife held no real power here.

I pulled my silk robe off the hook and wrapped it tightly around my body. I walked out of the bedroom, leaving Dante standing by the sink.

I stepped out into the massive penthouse living room. Standing in the center of the room was Sofia. She wore a tight, bright red dress. In her arms, she held a massive bouquet of fresh red roses, the stems dripping with water. She looked around the penthouse, her eyes scanning the expensive furniture with greedy entitlement.

I stopped at the top of the stairs. My breath immediately hitched. The heavy pollen from the roses filled the air conditioning system. My throat began to itch. When I was seven, I nearly died from anaphylactic shock in a greenhouse.

Sofia saw me. She plastered a fake, overly bright smile on her face and walked toward the base of the stairs. "Elena! I brought these to celebrate Dante coming back safe last night." She held the massive bouquet out to me.

I took a half-step back. I looked at the roses with dead eyes. I didn't raise my hands.

Sofia’s smile slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing the pure malice underneath. She deliberately opened her fingers.

The heavy bouquet dropped straight onto my bare foot. The thick, sharp thorns pierced right through my pale skin.

Drops of bright red blood welled up on my foot, staining the floor. I didn't flinch. I didn't make a sound. I just stared at her.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs. Dante walked down, tying the belt of his dark robe. His sharp eyes immediately scanned the floor, taking in the dropped roses and the blood on my foot.

Sofia gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. "Oh my god, Elena, I'm so sorry! They just slipped right out of my hands."

Dante didn't even look at my bleeding foot. He walked right past me, stepping down to Sofia's level. "Why are you here so early?" he asked, his voice low, lacking any of the anger he usually reserved for mistakes.

I swallowed hard against the swelling itch in my throat. I turned my back on them, walked into the open kitchen, and poured myself a glass of warm water from the island dispenser.

Dante turned his head to look at me. "Go change your clothes," he ordered, his tone flat and commanding.

I stopped halfway through my sip of water. I set the glass down. "Why do I need to change?" I asked coldly.

Dante closed the distance between us. He stood over me, his broad shoulders blocking the light. "The shootout last night caused a mess with the feds. We are going to the Adirondack cabin to lay low."

I looked at him. "I have a board meeting for the gallery today. I'm not going."

His eyes darkened into dangerous slits. His large hand shot out, his fingers gripping my chin like a steel vice. He forced my head up so I had to look into his eyes. He completely ignored the angry red allergic rash spreading down my neck.

"This is not a request, Elena," he stated coldly.

I stared into his deep, ruthless eyes. My heart dropped into a block of pure ice. The corners of my lips curled up into a slow, mocking smile.

"We leave in five minutes. Don't make me tell you twice."