Elena Vitiello POV:

I pushed open the heavy iron door of the old Brooklyn apartment. The rusted hinges screamed in protest, a harsh screech that made me wince. Dust kicked up from the floorboards, catching in my throat and forcing a dry cough from my lungs.

Five years ago, I moved into this cramped space to accommodate Dante's need for a low profile. Now, it was just a tomb for my wasted youth.

I reached out in the dark and flipped the light switch. The dim yellow bulbs flickered twice before finally staying on, casting long, depressing shadows across the living room. The floor was littered with his things.

My eyes landed on the couch. Dante's favorite dark grey cashmere coat was draped over the armrest. The familiar, crisp scent of cedarwood cologne hit my nose instantly.

That scent used to make me feel safe. Now, it triggered a violent physical reaction. My stomach flipped over itself. I slapped a hand over my mouth and sprinted for the bathroom.

I gripped the edges of the porcelain sink and dry heaved. Nothing came up, but my abdominal muscles cramped painfully. I turned on the faucet and let the freezing tap water run over my pale hands, trying to wash away the overwhelming sense of humiliation clinging to my skin.

I looked up at the bathroom mirror. My eyes were bloodshot. I raised my hands and slapped my own cheeks hard, the sharp stinging pain forcing the redness back into my skin, forcing my brain to focus.

A loud, aggressive pounding on the front door shattered the quiet. The old security door rattled violently against its frame.

I walked out of the bathroom, my body tense, and peered through the peephole. Standing under the flickering hallway light was Marco, Dante's vice boss. He wore an expression of pure arrogance.

I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, my face an emotionless mask. Marco didn't even offer a greeting. He simply pushed his way past me into the narrow entryway, two massive bodyguards following close behind him.

Marco pulled a large black trash bag from his pocket, snapped it open, and started tossing Dante's personal items into it. He moved with blatant disrespect, sweeping expensive watches and leather belts into the plastic like they were garbage.

One of the bodyguards bumped the coffee table. A glass vase tipped over, shattering on the floor and spilling water everywhere. Marco didn't even blink.

I crossed my arms over my chest, digging my nails deep into my palms. I wanted to kick them out, but I knew the rules. In the mafia hierarchy, a woman without the protection of a boss was nothing more than a stray dog.

Marco walked over to the bookshelf. He reached out and grabbed the framed photograph of Dante and me from our first year together. He held it loosely, his fingers smudging the glass.

I stepped forward instantly, slamming my hand down on the edge of the frame. I locked eyes with Marco, my gaze freezing over.

"Do not touch what does not belong to him," I said, my voice low and dangerous.

Marco let out a scoff and released the frame. He looked me up and down, his eyes dripping with contempt. "Still think you are the untouchable future Donma, Elena?"

I didn't back down. I took another step forward, invading his space, letting the full weight of my status as the eldest Vitiello daughter radiate from my posture.

Marco hesitated, his arrogance faltering for a split second under my glare. He cleared his throat, looked away, and went back to snatching clothes off the couch.

From the bedroom, a loud clatter echoed. One of the bodyguards had knocked a jewelry box off the dresser. A plain silver band rolled across the floorboards, stopping right at Marco's feet.

Marco picked it up and tossed it in the air, catching it lazily. "The boss wants this place cleared out tonight. Needs to empty the walk-in closet at the private villa to make room for Sofia's things."

The name hit me like a physical blow to the chest. Sofia.

My pupils contracted violently. My heart literally stopped beating for a full second. Dante's white swan. The woman who had been in a coma for five years.

I kept my facial muscles entirely rigid. Inside the pockets of my trench coat, my hands balled into fists so tight my nails broke the skin.

"Is that so?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm, colder than the winter air outside.

Marco realized his mistake. His face paled slightly. He clamped his mouth shut, shoved the ring into his pocket, and started moving twice as fast.

Three minutes later, Marco was holding two bulging black trash bags. He practically sprinted toward the front door, eager to escape the suffocating tension in the room.

Before stepping out, he paused and looked back at me. "The boss ordered you to stay grounded here for thirty days. Until the heat dies down."

He didn't wait for a response. He slammed the security door shut behind him. The impact shook the walls, sending a fresh layer of dust falling from the doorframe.

I stood in the center of the wrecked living room. Half the apartment was empty now, the bare spaces mocking my five years of absolute devotion.

I looked down. The silver band had fallen out of Marco's pocket. It sat on the dusty floor. It was the ring I had saved up for months to buy Dante for his birthday.

The cold metal against the floorboards snapped my mind into sharp clarity. I bent down, picked up the ring, walked straight to the trash can, and dropped it in.

I walked over to the window and yanked the heavy curtains open. I stared out at the broken streets of Brooklyn, my eyes hardening into something sharp and lethal.

"Thirty days of grounding? Dante, you will pay for your arrogance today."

Elena Vitiello POV:

Morning light sliced through the dusty blinds, casting jagged shadows across the scratched wooden floor of the art studio. I sat on a stool in front of my easel, completely motionless.

My fingers were wrapped tightly around a palette knife. The tip of the blade hovered inches from a pristine white canvas. My wrist ached from holding the exact same position for hours, the joints stiff and unyielding.

Painting used to be my escape. It was the only place I didn't have to be the perfect Vitiello daughter or the obedient Moretti fiancée.

I suddenly drove the tip of the knife into a tube of black oil paint. The thick, dark pigment oozed onto the wooden palette, looking exactly like clotted blood.

I raised the knife and slashed it across the canvas. I scraped and smeared the black paint with violent, erratic motions. The metal blade caught on the fabric, tearing the surface with a harsh, grating rip.

In seconds, a massive, suffocating void of black swallowed the white space. It looked exactly how my chest felt—crushed, betrayed, and completely trapped.

The phone resting on the side table erupted into a piercing ringtone. It was the specific, customized alert for the head of the Vitiello family.

My hand jerked. The palette knife slipped from my grasp, clattering onto the floor and smearing thick black paint across the hem of my white shirt.

I took a sharp breath, pulled a paper towel from the roll, and wiped my hands aggressively. I picked up the phone and pressed answer.

The moment the line connected, my father's roar exploded through the speaker. I had to pull the phone a few inches away from my ear to stop the sound from physically hurting me.

He didn't ask how I was. He didn't ask if I was okay after being abandoned at the altar. Instead, he screamed that I was a useless, charm-less failure.

The vicious words hit me like physical punches. I clamped my jaw shut, the muscles along my jawline pulling so tight they began to ache.

"Why couldn't you keep a leash on one man?" he spat, his voice laced with pure disgust. "You have made the Vitiello family the laughingstock of the entire New York underworld!"

"Dante broke the treaty," I said, my voice tight. "He walked out."

"Excuses!" my father snapped, cutting me off completely.

I heard the sharp click of a lighter, followed by the deep inhale of a cigar. When my father spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave. The heat was gone, replaced by a chilling, calculated coldness.

"If the Moretti family tears up the alliance completely, you will serve your final purpose."

He said a name. A sixty-year-old Russian Bratva boss. A man notorious in our world for his sadistic methods. A man who left his women broken and bleeding.

The blood in my veins turned to ice. My stomach dropped out.

"No," I blurted out, my voice shaking with a mixture of pure terror and blinding rage.

My father let out a cruel, dry laugh. "The Vitiello family does not feed useless garbage, Elena."

He didn't give me time to process. "You have thirty days. You will crawl back into Dante's bed, by whatever means necessary, or you will pack your bags for Moscow."

The line went dead. The rhythmic beeping of the disconnected call pounded against my frayed nerves like a countdown clock.

My knees buckled. I slid down the leg of the easel and hit the floor, landing hard in a puddle of black paint. The phone slipped from my fingers.

Panic seized my chest, squeezing my lungs until I was gasping for short, desperate breaths. I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs, trying to physically hold my body together to stop the violent shaking.

I stared at the ruined, torn black canvas above me.

A sound clawed its way up my throat. A harsh, broken laugh that echoed off the empty walls of the studio. The laughter tore through my chest, and finally, the tears broke free. They streamed down my face, washing through the dust on my cheeks.

I hated my father for his cold-blooded cruelty. But more than that, I hated myself for being stupid enough to place my life in Dante's hands for five years.

I raised a hand and wiped the tears away. The black paint from my fingers smeared across my cheekbone, looking like war paint.

I forced myself up. My legs wobbled, but I locked my knees and walked to the bathroom. I turned on the cold water and splashed it onto my face repeatedly, the freezing temperature shocking my system. Water soaked the front of my shirt and dripped from my hair.

I grabbed the edges of the sink and leaned forward, staring at my reflection. I looked like a mess, but my eyes were terrifying.

My escape routes were gone. I would rather die than become a plaything for that Russian monster. And I would never, ever beg Dante Moretti.

A reckless, insane thought took root in my brain. If the Vitiellos needed an alliance with the Morettis, Dante wasn't the only man in that family.

"If you are going to sell me to a monster, I will pick the most terrifying one of all."

Elena Vitiello POV:

The sun dipped below the skyline, leaving the living room bathed in the orange glow of the streetlights outside. I sat on the couch, leaning over the coffee table. Spread out before me was a massive, hand-drawn map of the Moretti family's power structure.

Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed from the hallway outside.

My hand froze, the pen hovering over the paper. Five years of living together meant my body recognized the exact cadence of his walk. My muscles tightened instinctively.

Keys jingled. The lock turned, the rusty cylinder letting out a sharp click.

The door pushed open. Dante stepped into the narrow entryway, bringing a rush of cold air and heavy exhaustion with him. He didn't even knock.

I flipped the map over on the table instantly. I stood up, crossing my arms, and stared coldly at the man who had abandoned me at the altar twenty-four hours ago.

Dante shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the shoe cabinet. He loosened his silk tie, his eyes completely ignoring the hostile glare I was giving him as he walked straight into the living room.

He stepped up to the couch and reached out his arms, a natural, ingrained motion to pull me into a hug, acting as if the canceled wedding was just a minor scheduling error.

I took a sharp step backward. Dante's hands stopped in mid-air. His thick eyebrows pulled together in deep annoyance.

As he stood there, a cloying, sickeningly sweet scent of rose perfume hit my nose. It was heavy, overpowering his usual cedarwood. Sofia's favorite scent.

My stomach rolled violently. The nausea hit me so hard I had to turn my head away, bringing the back of my hand up to cover my mouth and nose.

Dante dropped his arms. "I made time in my schedule to come see you, Elena. Don't throw a tantrum."

A harsh laugh ripped from my throat. "You abandon your bride at the altar, and you have the nerve to stand in my apartment and demand gratitude?"

His jaw tightened. "Sofia just woke up. Her emotions are highly unstable. I am simply fulfilling my duty as a brother."

I stared right at his collar. Smeared against the crisp white fabric was a faint but undeniable smudge of pink lipstick.

"Fulfilling your duty?" I asked, my voice dropping to a deadly calm. "Does fulfilling your duty require moving her into the private villa that was supposed to be our home?"

Dante's eyes flickered away for a fraction of a second. He ran a hand through his dark hair, an aggressive, frustrated gesture meant to cover his guilt. "Stop being unreasonable. You know how fragile she is."

He turned his back on me and walked briskly toward the study. His hurried steps proved what I already knew—he wasn't here to comfort me.

I followed him to the doorway. I watched him pull open the bottom drawer of the heavy oak desk and dig out a thick manila folder stamped with a black and gold wax seal. It was the transfer deed for the Brooklyn port.

He tucked the folder under his arm and turned to leave, not even sparing me a second glance.

As he passed through the living room, he suddenly stopped. He looked over his shoulder, his blue eyes calculating and cold.

"You will visit Sofia at Margaret Private Hospital tomorrow," he ordered.

My eyes widened in disbelief. My fingernails dug so hard into my palms I felt the skin break. "Are you out of your mind?"

"She lost the last five years of her memory," Dante said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "She only remembers you as her best friend."

He took a step closer, his physical presence looming over me. "You will play the part of her best friend. You will not say a single word that might upset her. Do you understand?"

I looked up at his face. The man I had loved for five years was dead. In his place stood a selfish, cruel stranger. The last remnants of my affection turned to ash in my mouth.

I needed to know what was going on in that hospital. I had to find a weakness. I forced the burning hatred out of my eyes, relaxing my facial muscles into a blank, compliant mask.

"Fine," I said flatly.

Dante nodded, a satisfied smirk touching his lips. He reached out and patted the top of my head, a dismissive, patronizing gesture. "You have always been sensible, Elena."

The second his hand left my hair, I jerked my head to the side, my skin crawling as if a rat had crawled across it.

Dante didn't notice. He marched to the door, yanked it open, and slammed it shut behind him, fleeing the apartment like it was a prison cell.

The moment the lock clicked, I spun around and ran to the bathroom. I pumped three squirts of harsh liquid soap into my hands and scrubbed my hair where his fingers had touched me, rubbing the strands until my scalp burned.

I rinsed the soap away, watching the water swirl down the drain. I looked up at the mirror, my eyes practically glowing with malice. Let the white swan play her games. I wanted to see exactly what she was hiding.

"Sensible? I will show you exactly how terrifying my sensible side can be."