Elena POV

The elevator at Moretti Holdings was a glass cage that offered a panoramic view of the city. I refused to look at it. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on the digital display, watching the floor numbers tick upward.

I was on my lunch break, heading toward an appointment with a realtor. A secret appointment.

The doors slid open on the executive floor, and the air instantly grew heavier. Dante stepped in, with Sofia clinging to his side like a decorative accessory. She was giggling, her hand staking a claim on his bicep. When she looked up and saw me, her smile widened.

It was a predator's baring of teeth disguised as a kitten's grin.

"Elena!" she chirped. "Going down?"

"Yes," I said.

Dante looked at me. His dark gaze slid over me, heavy with irritation, as if my mere existence was an interruption to his schedule. He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind Sofia's ear.

"Your hair is messy," he murmured.

"You messed it up," she whispered back, pitching her voice perfectly so I wouldn't miss a word.

"Stop whining," he said, but his tone was playful. He never played with me.

"Join us for lunch," Dante said.

It wasn't an invitation. It was a command.

"I can't," I said. "I have business."

His eyes narrowed into slits. "What business?"

"Personal business."

"You don't have personal business," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Cancel it."

Before I could respond, the elevator shuddered violently. The overhead lights flickered and died, plunging us into a sudden, heavy silence before the emergency red glare bathed the small space.

"Oh god," Sofia gasped. "I can't breathe. It's too tight in here."

She grabbed Dante's lapels. "It's okay," he soothed. "I'm here."

He pulled her into his arms, rubbing circles into her back and whispering reassurances I couldn't distinguish over the pounding of my own heart.

I pressed myself into the corner, fighting the familiar constriction in my chest. I was the one with the diagnosis. I was the one whose lungs actually seized in confined spaces. But I stood stone still.

I turned on my phone flashlight. The harsh beam hit them, cutting through the red gloom.

Dante glared at me.

"Turn that off," he hissed. "You're blinding her."

"The power is out, Dante," I said.

"She has a heart condition," he snapped. "She's fragile."

Fragile.

I was the one who had nearly died last week.

The elevator jolted again, and the doors groaned, prying open a few inches. We were level with the lobby floor, but the gap was barely wide enough to squeeze through.

Veins bulged in Dante's neck as he pried the doors apart with his bare hands. He shoved Sofia through the gap first.

"Go," he told her. "Get to the clinic. Get checked out."

She scrambled out, looking back with wide, fake-terrified eyes. Dante followed her immediately. He stepped out. He started to walk away.

The doors began to slide shut again.

He didn't look back. He didn't reach for a hand that was waiting to be taken. He left me alone in the dark metal box.

Panic surged, cold and sharp. I jammed my foot in the door. The rubber seal pinched my ankle, grinding against the bone, but I forced the doors back with a grunt of effort.

I squeezed out into the lobby.

I watched Dante's retreating back as he rushed Sofia toward the exit. He was carrying her now. Like a bride.

I looked down at my phone. The screen was cracked—a spiderweb of glass from where I had banged it against the wall in my struggle.

Ignoring the throb in my ankle, I walked out the side exit and took a taxi to the apartment viewing.

It was small. It smelled sharply of bleach. It was perfect.

I went back to the office at 5 PM. Dante was sitting at my desk.

He had a small box of pastries. "Cannoli," he said. "From lunch."

The box was open, revealing the ravaged remains. Half-eaten. Leftovers.

"Sofia couldn't finish them," he said. "I thought you'd want them."

He placed the box on my keyboard.

"I need you to print the quarterly reports," he said.

"I can't," I said.

"Why?"

"I'm printing something else."

The printer whirred to life beside us. A single sheet of paper slid into the tray. I picked it up and handed it to him.

"What is this?" he asked.

"My resignation," I said.

He laughed. A short, sharp bark of disbelief. "You can't resign, Elena. You belong to the Family."

"I resign from the legitimate company," I said, my voice steady. "I resign from being your secretary. And I certainly resign from eating her leftovers."

I picked up the pastry box and dropped it into the trash can next to my desk with a final, dull thud.

"You're fired," I whispered to the empty air, the words tasting like freedom as I walked away.

Elena POV

I bad retreated to a diner across town, seeking the anonymity of a corner booth.

I was nursing a burger.

Alone.

My phone rang, shattering the grease-scented quiet.

Dante.

I let it ring.

It rang again. And again. A persistent, demanding trill that refused to be ignored.

A male colleague, Mark from accounting, happened to be walking past my table on his way out.

"Is that your phone?" he asked, pausing with an amused smirk.

I nodded, staring at the screen.

"It's annoying," he laughed, clearly mistaking our work proximity for friendship.

Before I could react, he reached over and snatched it off the table.

"Hello?" Mark said cheerfully, answering for me like it was a joke.

The silence on the other end was heavy, instantly suffocating the air between us.

"Who is this?" Dante's voice was absolute ice.

"Uh, Mark. From accounting," Mark stammered, his smile faltering. "Who is this?"

"Put Elena on the phone. Now. Or I will cut your tongue out."

Mark drained of all color.

He handed me the phone like it was a live grenade, his fingers trembling.

"It's... for you."

I pressed the phone to my ear.

"Where are you?" Dante demanded.

"Eating."

"With a man?"

"He's just a colleague, Dante."

"Send me your location. I'm coming to get you."

"I'm fine, Dante. I don't need—"

"Send it. Now."

The command brooked no argument. I sent the pin.

And then, I waited.

I finished my burger, every bite tasting like ash.

I finished my fries, watching the clock on the wall tick forward.

The diner closed at 11:30. The staff began stacking chairs around me.

He never came.

With a sinking feeling in my gut, I checked Instagram.

Sofia had posted a story just minutes ago.

It was a photo of a hospital wristband.

The caption read: My hero never leaves my side.

The realization hit me harder than the silence.

He wasn't coming.

He was never coming.

I stood up, leaving the empty plate behind, and went home.

Elena POV

The bedroom door crashed against the wall, shattering the silence.

Dante didn't just walk in; he invaded the room.

He flipped the switch, flooding the space with a blinding, aggressive glare.

I sat up, shielding my eyes, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Before I could adjust, his hands were on me. He grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging into my skin.

He shook me, once, hard.

"Why were you with him?" he roared, the sound vibrating in his chest.

"I wasn't with him," I said, my voice trembling but firm. "He walked by. That was all."

He released me as if burned.

He began to pace the room, running a hand through his chaotic hair.

He looked unhinged. His eyes were wide, darting around the room, seeing things that weren't there.

"I'm hungry," he said suddenly, the shift in tone jarring.

"There's bread in the kitchen," I said, watching him warily.

"I want Tortellini," he demanded. "The ones with the cream sauce. Make them."

"It's 3 AM, Dante."

"I don't care. Make them."

I looked at him, really looked at him.

He looked exhausted, worn down to the bone.

But there was something else beneath the fatigue.

Desperation.

And then it clicked.

Sofia loved Tortellini.

She had mentioned it in the elevator weeks ago.

He wanted to bring her comfort food.

And in his twisted, compartmentalized mind, he wanted his wife to cook it.

I got out of bed, my movements slow, deliberate.

I walked to him.

I reached out and traced the scar on his hand—that jagged line of white flesh that marred his skin.

"Do you remember how you got this?" I asked softly.

He snatched his hand away.

"Don't start with the history lesson, Elena. Just cook."

"No," I said.

"What?"

"I'm out of heavy cream," I lied, holding his gaze. "I'd have to go to the store."

He grabbed my arm again.

His grip was bruising, possessive.

"Go then. There's a 24-hour market."

I looked at his hand on my arm.

Then I looked up into his eyes.

"Does she like them with extra parmesan?" I asked.

The question sucked the air out of the room.

Dante froze.

His grip loosened, his fingers going slack.

He stepped back, putting distance between us.

He didn't deny it.

He didn't say her name.

But the truth hung between us like a guillotine blade, waiting to drop.

"Go back to sleep," he muttered, his voice hollow.

He turned and strode out, leaving the door wide open.

Dawn broke gray and cold, the light unforgiving.

I found him in the kitchen hours later.

He was holding a thermos.

He was dressed for travel, impeccable in his suit, the mania of the night hidden beneath tailored wool.

"I have to go to Italy," he said, avoiding my eyes. "Business with the Calabrians."

He was lying.

The Calabrians were in London this week. We both knew it.

"Okay," I said.

"When I get back," he said, adjusting his cuffs, "we need to have dinner with your parents. Saturday."

"Why?"

"To discuss the wedding," he said. "The merger needs to be finalized. The other Families are asking questions."

The wedding.

The cage.

"My parents are away," I said.

"Where?"

"Cruising," I replied. "No signal."

His phone rang, shattering the tension.

He checked it, and a flicker of urgency crossed his face.

"I have to go," he said.

He picked up the thermos.

The faint scent of garlic and cream wafted from it. It was filled with Tortellini from the deli down the street.

"Goodbye, Dante," I said.

He paused at the door.

He looked at me.

For a second, just a second, he looked like he knew.

Like he sensed the ground shifting beneath his feet.

"See you Monday, Elena."

He walked out.

I locked the door, sliding the deadbolt home with a finality that echoed in my chest.

"No," I whispered to the empty room. "You won't."