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."

Chapter 7

Elena Vitiello POV:

The crystal chandelier above the long oak dining table cast a blinding, harsh light over the room. The table was covered in expensive French cuisine, roasted meats, and heavy silver platters.

I sat at the very end of the long table. I wore a plain, thick black turtleneck sweater. I refused to wear any of the designer dresses Dante had bought for me. I looked entirely out of place in the sea of diamonds and silk around the room.

Sofia sat at the other end, right next to Dante in the seat of honor. She laughed loudly, leaning over to chat with the girlfriends and wives of Dante's top lieutenants.

"Oh, Sofia, that white cashmere looks absolutely stunning on your skin tone," one of the Capo's wives practically shouted, making sure her voice carried down the table to me.

Sofia touched the collar of my stolen clothes, her eyes flashing with victory. "Thank you. Dante has such wonderful taste."

I picked up my heavy silver steak knife. I pressed the blade down into the rare meat on my plate and dragged it hard across the porcelain.

Screeeech.

The horrific sound cut through the chatter. Dante’s head snapped toward me. His eyes narrowed into dark, warning slits, silently ordering me to stop embarrassing him.

I didn't stop. I chopped the meat into unidentifiable pieces, pushed the plate to the center of the table, and set the knife down. I hadn't taken a single bite.

Dinner slowly ended. The men moved to smoke. Dante stood up and walked over to the massive mahogany wet bar in the corner. He started mixing drinks himself. When he was a teenager, before he took over the empire, he worked as a bartender. It was the only time he ever served anyone else.

He took a heavy ice pick and expertly chipped a perfect sphere of clear ice. He dropped it into a heavy crystal glass and poured a generous measure of vintage Bourbon whiskey.

Sofia clapped her hands together, her eyes dripping with fake adoration. "You're so good at that, Dante."

He handed the first glass to Sofia. As she took it, her manicured fingers deliberately brushed over his knuckles. He didn't pull away.

Then, Dante picked up a second glass of pure, neat Bourbon. He walked the length of the dining room, stopping right next to my chair. He set the glass down hard next to my water goblet.

The sharp, burning smell of heavy alcohol and smoked oak hit my face. My stomach violently cramped. The smell of cheap whiskey was the smell of my father. It was the smell of the nights I spent hiding in the closet while he broke the furniture. Dante knew this. I had told him on our wedding night.

I looked slowly up at Dante. My eyes were as cold as the ice at the bottom of the glass.

He looked down at me, his jaw set. "Drink it," he ordered, his voice sounding like a king giving an order to a peasant. "It will warm you up."

From across the room, Sofia covered her mouth and let out a sharp giggle. "Oh, Dante, don't force her. Elena only drinks sweet, sugary fruit juice. She can't handle real drinks."

Every conversation in the room stopped. Every pair of eyes turned to me. The women smirked. The men watched with quiet amusement. I was the joke.

I put my hands on the armrests of my heavy chair. I pushed it back. The wood scraped loudly against the floor. I stood up, my spine perfectly straight.

I reached out my hand. My fingers wrapped around the thick crystal glass.

Dante’s chest expanded. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a satisfied smirk. He thought he had won. He thought I was submitting.

I didn't break eye contact with him. I flipped my wrist.

I poured the entire glass of expensive, amber liquid straight into the dirt of the massive, rare Bird of Paradise potted plant next to the table. Every single drop.

The heavy ice cube fell out last, hitting the wet soil with a dull, heavy thud.

The entire dining room went dead silent. Nobody breathed.

Sofia let out a loud, dramatic gasp, pressing both hands to her cheeks in fake horror.

Dante’s smirk froze. The vein on the side of his forehead pulsed violently. His eyes turned black with instant, explosive rage.

He lunged forward. His massive hand clamped down on my wrist. His iron fingers dug into my fragile bones, squeezing so hard I felt the joints grinding together.

I didn't wince. I stared right back into his furious eyes, planted my feet, and violently yanked my arm back. My wrist tore free from his grip, leaving red finger marks on my skin.

I grabbed my heavy winter coat off the back of the chair. I didn't look at Sofia. I didn't look at the guards.

I turn my back on the room and walked straight toward the heavy glass sliding doors leading to the backyard.

"Elena!" Dante roared behind me. His voice shook the crystal chandelier above the table.

I pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped out into the screaming blizzard.

"If you walk out that door today, don't you ever think about coming back!"