Elena Rossi's POV:

Donna Isabella didn't pour me tea.

She sat across from me in a private room of a café, where an hour's rental cost more than my mother made in a year.

She slid a black folder across the marble tabletop with her manicured fingers.

"I always knew you were a smart girl, Elena," she said.

I didn't touch the folder yet.

"I want out," I said evenly. "Completely out. No tracking. No loose ends. If Dante comes looking for me, he'll only find a ghost."

Isabella smiled.

"Dante won't come looking for you," she said dismissively. "He's obsessed with you, true. But he's a Vitiello. He understands duty. He's marrying Sofia Moretti in three months. You're just a loose end."

"Then cut it," I said.

I opened the folder.

The number was staggering. Fifty million dollars.

Enough to buy a brand-new life.

But there were conditions.

The recipient must leave the United States within 14 days.

The recipient must never contact Dante Vitiello again.

Breach of contract will result in immediate termination.

In the Vitiello family, "termination" didn't mean a lawsuit. It meant a bullet.

I picked up the pen and signed my name. Elena Rossi.

"Smart choice," Isabella said, snatching the folder back before the ink was even dry. "The funds will be deposited into an offshore account by tomorrow morning. Australia has lovely weather this time of year. And no extradition treaties for us to worry about."

"Two weeks," I said.

"Two weeks," she confirmed. "Don't linger, child. The Don hates long goodbyes."

The ride back to the penthouse we shared was a blur.

The doorman smiled at me as I walked into the lobby. "Good afternoon, Miss Rossi."

He didn't know I had already become a ghost.

I took the elevator to the apartment that occupied the entire top floor.

It was filled with things Dante had given me. Jewelry I never wore. Dresses worth a fortune.

A gilded cage made of diamonds and silk. I finally saw the penthouse for what it truly was.

I sat on the edge of the bed where we had made love just this morning.

My phone pinged.

An Instagram notification.

I usually avoided social media, but curiosity is a poison.

I opened it.

Sofia Moretti had posted a photo ten minutes ago.

It was a close-up of a document on a desk. A marriage contract.

Her hand was resting on Dante's forearm.

It was Dante. I instantly recognized the watch on his wrist. It was my birthday gift to him.

The caption read: Fate always brings back what's yours. #VitielloMoretti #Forever.

I stared at the screen until my eyes burned.

Fate didn't bring him back.

I pulled him out of the darkness. I healed him.

Seven years. How many seven years does a person get in a lifetime?

And yet, she was reaping the rewards.

My phone vibrated again. A text from Dante.

Dante: Have to stay overnight in D.C. Business came up. Don't wait up. Love you.

He wasn't in D.C.

He was with her.

Probably celebrating the signing of their marriage contract.

I replied.

Me: Okay. Stay safe.

I pressed send.

Then I double-tapped Sofia's photo.

Like.

I put my phone down and walked into the walk-in closet.

I didn't take any clothes. I didn't take any jewelry.

I dragged a small, battered suitcase from beneath the racks of designer clothes.

I started packing the things that mattered.

My mother's rosary. The books I used to read to him when he was blind. A dried flower picked from the garden.

I was going to leave.

But first, I had to survive the next two weeks without screaming.

Elena Rossi's POV:

The charity auction was less of a gala and more of a battlefield for high society.

I wasn't supposed to be here.

Dante had explicitly told me to stay home.

But Marco, kind-hearted but clueless, had sent a driver for me, assuming Dante had simply forgotten to pass along the invite. I couldn't refuse without raising questions I wasn't ready to answer.

So, I stood on the periphery, half-hidden in the shadow of a marble pillar, watching.

Dante stood in the center of the room. He didn't just occupy the space; he commanded it.

He looked like a king. Lethal. Handsome. Untouchable.

And Sofia was right beside him.

She laughed, letting her hand linger on his bicep, her lips brushing his ear to whisper secrets I would never hear.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew heavy.

Three men from the Russo family approached them. They were drunk, their voices too loud, completely out of place against the polite murmurs of the room.

One of them grabbed Sofia's arm, his grip visibly rough.

"Look at the little princess," the man sneered, slurring his words. "Daddy's broke, so she crawls back to the big bad wolf?"

Sofia let out a shriek that cut through the noise like breaking glass.

Dante moved faster than conscious thought.

He seized the man's wrist and twisted violently. The sickening crack of bone echoed through the hall.

Total chaos erupted.

Security swarmed the area.

This could very well start a war.

Dante, having just regained his sight, was in no position to wage a war. It would push him and his family straight off a cliff.

Dante shoved the man away, his face contorted in undisguised fury.

"Back off!" Dante roared.

He swung his arm backward, clearing a perimeter to form a protective circle around Sofia.

He didn't see me.

He didn't know I had taken a step forward, instinctively reaching out to pull him back from the brink.

His thick forearm slammed into my chest like a battering ram.

I flew backward.

My head hit the sharp edge of the marble pillar.

A blinding flash of white light exploded across my vision.

I crumpled to the floor, my sight swimming.

A warm stream trickled down my neck. Thick blood.

"Dante..." I gasped, the air knocked from my lungs.

But he wasn't looking at me.

He was on his knees, entirely focused on Sofia, gently holding her ankle.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her, his voice frantic. "Did they touch you?"

"My ankle," Sofia sobbed, clutching his collar. "I think I sprained it. Oh, God, Dante, get me out of here."

Without a second's hesitation, he scooped her up in his arms.

He walked right past me.

His Italian leather shoe stepped right into the fresh drops of blood I had left on the polished floor.

He didn't look down.

He carried her out of the hall as if she were made of porcelain, leaving me bleeding on the cold stone, utterly ignored.

I stitched the wound myself in the penthouse bathroom.

Four stitches.

I didn't use an anesthetic. The sharp pain of the needle piercing my skin momentarily distracted me from the massive, gaping wound in my chest.

I sat on the bathroom tiles all night, staring at the door, waiting for the knob to turn.

It didn't.

The next morning, my phone rang.

"Velvet Lounge, VIP Room 703, now." Dante's voice was frigid and devoid of life.

He hung up before I could utter a single word.

I pulled on a turtleneck sweater to hide the bandages and hailed a cab, my head still throbbing violently with every heartbeat.

When I walked into the private room, the air was thick with the smell of cigars.

Dante sat on a leather sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Sofia sat next to him, one foot propped up on a velvet pillow, dramatically wrapped in an ace bandage.

She looked flawless. Impeccable, like a pure, blameless victim.

Dante looked at me with an expression I didn't recognize at all. His eyes were dead, showing no sign that he even knew who I was.

"Explain," he demanded.

"Explain what?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady despite my trembling hands.

"Those men at the auction," Dante said low, his tone dark and dangerous. "They were Russians."

And?

"Sofia says you know them," Dante said. "She says she saw you signal them right before they approached her."

I looked at Sofia in sheer shock.

She gave me a sad, pitying smile. Masterful acting. "Elena, I know you're jealous. But hiring men to scare me? That's too dangerous. You almost got Dante hurt."

My jaw practically hit the floor.

"You think I hired the Russos?" I looked back at Dante, fighting to keep my sanity, and asked. "Dante, I was standing in the corner. You hit me. You knocked me out."

"Don't lie to me!" Dante slammed his hand on the table, rattling the crystal glasses.

I flinched.

"I watched the security footage, Elena," he roared. "You were right there. Watching. Waiting."

"I was waiting for you," I whispered, even though I knew how pathetic it sounded.

"You're lucky, Elena," Dante spat, the verdict hanging in the air like a guillotine blade. "Because of what you've done for me in the past... I will spare your life."

Mercy.

He pointed at Sofia.

"Apologize," he commanded, leaving no room for argument. "Get on your knees and apologize to her."

A dead silence fell over the room.

Even the bodyguards standing by the door looked away.

"Dante," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I didn't do this."

"On your knees!" he snapped.

Sofia sighed, her tone exaggerated. "Dante, darling, don't be so harsh. Maybe she just needs a drink to calm her nerves. How about a toast? To my safety?"

She gestured lazily toward a bottle of whiskey on the low table.

"Drink," Sofia ordered, her eyes glinting with the cruelty of a predator toying with its prey. "Finish the bottle, and I'll forgive you."

I stared at the amber liquid.

I hadn't touched a drop of alcohol in five years.

When Dante was blind, he drowned his sorrows in booze. Alcohol turned him into a monster, a creature of pure rage and grief.

So I quit drinking. I had to be the sober one, the anchor in his storm.

"I can't," I choked out.

Dante leaned back, crossing his arms. "You disrespected the Family, Elena. Drink, or leave New York in a body bag. Pick one."

He might have been bluffing. Or maybe not.

I could no longer read the man behind the mask.

I walked to the table, my legs feeling like lead.

I reached for the bottle.

As I did, my hand brushed against the room service tray next to it, palming a small tin of mustard powder.

While they watched, thinking I was just hesitating, I tilted my head back, dumped a handful of the yellow powder into my mouth, and agonizingly swallowed it dry.

It was an old servant's trick. An intense emetic; it would force me to throw up everything before the alcohol could cause cardiac arrest.

Then, I started drinking.

The whiskey burned down my throat like molten lead.

One glass.

Two glasses.

Sofia clapped her hands, giddy as a child watching a comical circus act.

Three.

The room began to tilt on its axis.

Four.

I gagged, fighting back the urge to vomit.

Five.

Tears streamed down my cheeks.

Not just from the alcohol.

From Dante.

Dante was watching me. His face was a blank mask, but his hands gripped his knees so tightly his knuckles were white.

Six.

I swayed, the floor threatening to rush up and smack me in the face.

Seven.

My fingers went numb. The glass slipped from my hand and hit the floor, shattering into flying crystal shards.

"Enough," Dante said. His voice was hoarse, grinding like gravel.

He stood up abruptly and grabbed my wrist. "Enough, Elena."

I violently yanked my arm out of his grasp.

The alcohol flooded my veins with reckless courage.

"Are you happy, Mr. Vitiello?" I slurred, waving a hand toward Sofia. "Is she worth it? Does she know how to hold you when the nightmares tear you to pieces? Does she know which song will pull you back from the dark?"

"That's enough, Elena. You're drunk," he warned, a dangerous edge to his voice.

"I hope she burns you," I spat, my words heavy with bitterness and whiskey. "I hope she burns you to ashes."

I turned and stumbled toward the door.

"Elena!" he called out.

I barely made it into the hallway before my legs finally gave out.

The mustard powder kicked in violently.

I collapsed onto the floor, heaving violently.

Darkness crept into the edges of my vision, the world shrinking to a pinpoint.

I felt a pair of strong arms scoop me up effortlessly.

"Get the car!" Dante roared, all his composure completely shattered. "Get the damn car now!"

"Dante, wait!" Sofia's shrill voice rang out from the room. "You can't leave me!"

"Shut up, Sofia!"

He carried me, holding me tight against him.

I pressed my face into his chest.

It smelled like betrayal.

"Let me go," I whispered against his shirt, losing consciousness. "Please, just let me go."

I woke up in a hospital bed.

The harsh smell of antiseptic hit my nose.

Dante was sitting in a chair beside me, his face buried in his hands.

He looked like a wreck.

"You're awake," he said, sitting up.

"Where is she?" I asked. "Where's your wife?"

"She's not my wife yet," he said quietly. "Elena... why did you drink? You know you can't handle it."

"You made me do it."

"I was angry. I didn't mean to..." His voice trailed off, the excuse dying on his lips.

He reached out to grab my hand.

I pulled it under the sheets, out of his reach.

"Go back to your business, Dante," I said. "The maid's daughter will be fine."

He flinched as if I had struck him.

"Don't call yourself that."

I chose to remain silent.

There was no need to argue with him. I was leaving soon—leaving him, leaving America.

He stood up and paced like a caged beast. "I'm doing this for the Family. You don't understand politics."

He stopped pacing. He stared at me with a terrifying intensity.

"You are mine," he growled low. "Contract or no contract, wife or no wife, you belong to me, Elena. Never forget that."

He turned and strode out of the room.

I waited until the heavy door clicked shut.

Then, I ripped the IV out of my arm.

Blood dripped onto the crisp white sheets, leaving a glaring red stain.

Nine days left.