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."

Elena Vitiello POV:

I pushed open the heavy, soundproof door of the VIP suite at Margaret Private Hospital. The overwhelming smell of industrial bleach mixed with the sickeningly sweet scent of blooming white lilies assaulted my nose immediately.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting the hospital bed. Sofia sat propped up against the pillows. She wore a standard hospital gown, her face pale, yet she still possessed that delicate, fragile beauty that made men want to protect her.

Dante sat in the armchair right beside her bed. He held a small paring knife, carefully peeling an apple for her. The look in his eyes was soft, patient, and completely devoted. In five years, Dante had never so much as poured me a glass of water.

At the sound of the door clicking shut, Dante’s head snapped up. The tenderness vanished from his face instantly, replaced by a hard, warning glare that told me to watch my mouth.

Sofia turned her head. The moment she saw me, her large brown eyes lit up like an innocent child's.

She threw the blankets off her legs and tried to slide out of the bed. Dante dropped the knife and the apple on the tray, lunging forward to grab her shoulders and hold her in place.

Sofia ignored his hands. She reached out past him and grabbed my stiff fingers, squeezing them tight. "Elena! Sister!" she cried, her voice dripping with sugar.

Every muscle in my arm screamed to pull away. I forced the corners of my mouth up into a rigid, entirely lifeless smile. "Congratulations on waking up."

Sofia’s eyes welled with tears. She pulled my hand against her soft cheek, rubbing against my knuckles. "It felt like I was in a long, dark dream for five years. I missed you so much."

The door opened again. A nurse rolled a medical cart into the room. She paused, taking in the scene. Her eyes flicked to me, filled with a potent mix of pity and blatant disgust. Everyone in the New York upper echelon knew I was the pathetic stand-in who got dumped.

That look felt like a physical needle sliding under my skin. I couldn't take it anymore. I yanked my hand back hard.

My fingernail brushed against the back of Sofia’s hand.

Sofia let out a sharp, dramatic gasp, pulling her hand to her chest. There wasn't even a red mark, let alone broken skin. But Dante reacted like she had been shot.

He snatched her hand, inspecting it frantically. Then he turned his head, his eyes blazing with fury. "Are you doing this on purpose?" he hissed, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

I stood rooted to the spot. My hands dropped to my sides, my fingers curling into the fabric of my trench coat. I looked at the two of them, watching the performance, and refused to offer a single word of defense.

Sofia immediately grabbed Dante’s sleeve, shaking her head with wide, tearful eyes. "Don't be mad at her, Dante. It’s my fault. I was just too excited."

As she spoke, her gaze drifted downward, landing on my collarbone. A flicker of cold calculation passed through her innocent eyes before she tilted her head.

"Oh," Sofia said, her voice breathy and confused. "That necklace looks so familiar."

Dante’s eyes followed hers. The moment he saw the blue sapphire resting against my skin, his face drained of color. He looked like someone had just slapped him across the jaw.

It was the necklace Dante bought me at a high-stakes auction a year ago. He paid an astronomical price for it, making headlines across the city.

Sofia bit her lower lip, looking up at Dante with a wounded expression. "Isn't that the necklace you promised to give me for my twentieth birthday?"

The air in the room turned to concrete. Dante shoved his chair back and stood up. He closed the distance between us in two massive strides, his tall frame casting a dark, oppressive shadow over me.

He reached out and grabbed the thick platinum chain around my neck. "Take it off," he ordered. "Give it back to her."

He pulled. The metal chain dug violently into the sensitive skin of my neck, choking me. A sharp, burning pain flared across my throat as a bright red line formed on my skin.

I stared at him, my eyes wide with shock. He had locked this clasp around my neck himself, telling me it was a thank you for my loyalty.

Dante wouldn't meet my eyes. He leaned down, his voice a low, threatening growl meant only for me. "Don't cause a scene here. Take it off, and I will compensate you later."

The sheer humiliation of his words set my blood on fire. My anger peaked, drowning out the physical pain. I raised both my hands, grabbed the platinum chain, and yanked downward with brutal force.

The metal links snapped with a sharp crack that echoed in the quiet room. The heavy sapphire pendant swung through the air.

I slammed the broken necklace directly into Dante’s chest. The jewels hit his suit jacket and slid down to the floor, clattering against the tiles.

I shot one last, freezing look at Sofia, who was hiding a tiny smirk behind her hand. I turned on my heel and marched out of the room, my footsteps heavy and fast.

The cold air of the hallway hit my face. I reached up, my fingers brushing the burning welt on my neck. The last ember of warmth I held for Dante Moretti died completely.

"Your trash. Keep it."