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."

Chapter 6

Elena Vitiello POV:

The interior of the Maybach GLS was suffocatingly cold. I sat pressed against the far door, staring out the tinted window at the dead, leafless trees of the New York suburbs blurring past. The silence between us was like a physical wall, thick and immovable.

Dante sat on the opposite side of the spacious backseat. His long legs were crossed. In his right hand, he spun his heavy silver lighter.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The sharp metallic sound echoed in the quiet cabin. It was a habit he used during interrogations to break men's nerves.

He turned his head. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his gaze drop to my neck. The red rash from the rose pollen was still visible, angry and raised against my pale skin. His hand stopped spinning the lighter.

He reached forward, opened the small refrigerated compartment, and pulled out a bottle of sparkling water. He poured it into a crystal glass and held it out toward me. It felt like a master throwing a bone to a stray dog.

I kept my eyes locked on the speeding trees outside. I didn't turn my head. I didn't reach for it.

Dante’s thick eyebrows snapped together. He slammed the crystal glass down onto the walnut tray table. The water sloshed over the rim.

Before he could open his mouth to snap at me, his private phone vibrated in his suit pocket.

He pulled it out. The screen lit up. Even from my angle, I could see Sofia’s name flashing. He unlocked the screen immediately.

I watched his reflection in the dark window. The hard, furious lines around his mouth softened. A tiny, almost invisible smile touched his lips. My stomach rolled over itself, sick and heavy.

He started typing back with both thumbs. He completely forgot about the glass of water. He forgot about my bleeding foot. He forgot about me.

I waited until his eyes were entirely glued to his screen. Slowly, smoothly, I slid my right hand into the deep pocket of my wool coat.

My fingertips brushed against the cold metal edge of a secondary, encrypted micro-phone. It was no bigger than a business card. It was my last lifeline, a relic from my days as a tech startup developer in Silicon Valley—a past Dante thought was a cute little hobby.

I kept my hand perfectly still inside the pocket. Muscle memory took over. I traced the tiny keypad, keying in the complex unlock passcode without looking.

Dante’s head snapped up. His sharp blue eyes locked onto my coat pocket.

My heart skipped a violent beat. I immediately pulled my hand out, grabbing the lapel of my coat and pretending to adjust the collar against the AC draft.

Dante let out a short, dismissive scoff. He thought I was just fidgeting for attention. He looked back down at his screen and continued texting her.

I exhaled a slow, silent breath. I slid my hand back into the pocket. My thumb moved rapidly over the tiny buttons, typing out a shorthand code that read like Morse.

Execute spin-off. Now.

Three thousand miles away in San Francisco, Isabella would receive that ping. She would initiate the final sequence to strip the offshore trusts completely clean.

A few seconds later, the tiny phone in my pocket gave a single, microscopic vibration.

Message received.

The tight, painful knot in my shoulders finally relaxed. I looked back out the window. The reflection in the glass showed my eyes. They weren't the eyes of a caged canary anymore. They were the eyes of a predator.

The heavy Maybach exited the highway and began the steep climb up the winding mountain road of the Adirondacks. The tires crunched loudly over the thick, packed ice. The wind outside picked up, whipping heavy snow against the glass, slowing the car to a crawl.

Dante locked his phone and put it away. He looked at me, his expression arrogant and bored. "When we get to the cabin, you will behave yourself. No tantrums."

I closed my eyes, leaning my head against the cold glass. I answered him with absolute, dead silence.

Twenty minutes later, the SUV pulled to a smooth stop halfway up the mountain. Two heavily armed guards rushed forward to pull the doors open.

The freezing mountain wind hit me like a slap. I pulled my coat tighter around my chest and stepped out into the deep snow.

In front of us stood a massive, luxurious log cabin. The heavy oak front doors were already pushed wide open. The warm, orange glow of a massive stone fireplace spilled out onto the snow.

I looked up toward the entrance. My pupils shrank to pinpricks.

Standing in the doorway, holding a steaming mug of hot cocoa, was Sofia. She was wearing my custom-made, white cashmere loungewear set.

"Welcome to our secret hideaway, Elena."