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.

Elena Rossi's POV:

I moved through the penthouse like a ghost, quietly packing my things into boxes whenever Dante wasn't paying attention.

He interpreted my silence as sulking. He thought I had finally "accepted my place."

I was in the hallway, my hand hovering over the study door, when I suddenly heard his voice and froze.

"She's calmed down, Mother," Dante said, his tone casual. "Yes, I know she's going on a trip. She thinks it's a vacation."

I froze.

"Isabella," he continued, "Elena has agreed to stay at the villa in Tuscany for a few weeks. Just until the wedding fever dies down."

He was lying to his mother. Or maybe, Isabella had lied to him.

"She signed the papers, Dante," Isabella's voice came through the speakerphone. "She's taking the money and leaving forever..."

My heart hammered violently in my chest.

If he knew I had already signed the agreement...

Dante laughed. "She signed an NDA for pocket change, Mom. She isn't going anywhere. She's obsessed with me. She'll never leave."

He actually believed that.

His arrogance became my shield.

I retreated into the shadows, dead silent.

That night, he hosted a gala.

"For you," he said, shoving a velvet box into my hands. It held a pair of diamond earrings. "A birthday present. I know I missed it."

My birthday was last week—the exact day he left me stranded on the side of the road.

The estate's ballroom was suffocating.

When I walked in, people whispered.

The mistress. The kept woman. The charity case.

Dante kept his hand pressed to the small of my back, as if branding me.

Then, the double doors swung open.

Sofia walked in.

She wore a light blue silk gown embroidered with delicate silver vines that shimmered under the chandeliers.

It was a custom design.

I knew that because I had seen Dante sketch it.

Three years ago, when his sight was just starting to return—when he couldn't see anything but me—he drew it on a cocktail napkin.

"For you," he promised as he traced the lines. "When I can see again, I want to see you in this."

Now, Sofia was wearing it.

She glided across the room, the crowd parting for her like the Red Sea.

She walked straight toward us.

"Happy birthday, Elena," she chirped, her tone dripping with fake sweetness. "Dante told me he designed this dress. It's beautiful, isn't it? A bit tight around the bust, but I pull it off quite well."

She flashed a smile.

Dante shifted uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes.

"I brought a gift, too," Sofia announced.

She snapped her manicured fingers.

A servant stepped forward, carrying a wicker basket.

Inside was a puppy—a German Shepherd.

Its ears perked up, its teeth sharp and white.

I jerked backward, gasping.

When I was ten, the head of security's dogs got into the servants' quarters. One of them tore open my calf. I still bore the scars to this day.

I was terrified of dogs.

Dante knew this.

He knew.

"His name is Ali," Sofia said, shoving the basket against my chest. "Take him. He's a protector."

The puppy barked, a sharp, piercing sound.

I flinched violently, bumping into a passing waiter.

"Take it, Elena," Sofia urged, her eyes gleaming. "Don't be rude."

"I... I can't," I stammered, my palms sweating.

"Dante," Sofia pouted, turning to look at him. "She's rejecting my gift."

Dante looked around. The crowd was watching, waiting to see if the mistress would defy the future Donna.

"Elena," Dante said, a tense warning in his tone. "Take the dog. It's a peace offering."

"Dante, please," I whispered, begging him to remember. "You know."

"Take the damn dog!" he snapped.

Trembling, I reached out my hands.

Sensing my fear, the puppy lunged.

It didn't bite, but it scrambled frantically out of the basket.

It bolted.

It crashed straight into a towering pyramid of champagne glasses.

Crash.

The sound of hundreds of shattering glasses was deafening.

Dante sprang into action instantly.

He threw himself over Sofia, shielding her from the falling shards.

Glass rained down like hail.

A large shard sliced my forearm. Another grazed my cheek.

I stood there, blood welling up on my skin, watching him hold her.

He checked her face, her arms, her hair.

"Are you okay?" he asked her anxiously.

"I'm scared," she whimpered, burying her face in his chest.

Only then did he look at me.

He saw the blood running down my arm, dripping onto the marble floor.

For a fleeting second, a flash of regret crossed his eyes.

But then the crowd began to murmur.

"Get her to the ER!" Dante barked at a nearby soldier. "And clean this mess up."

He turned his attention back to Sofia.

"Come on," he said softly to her. "Let's get you out of here."

He escorted her out.

Again.

I stood amid the ruins of the party, covered in blood, while the guests covered their mouths to hide their laughter.

"Miss Rossi," the soldier said quietly. "The car is out front."

I looked at the blood pooling at my feet. It was the exact same color as the wine Dante drank when he was blind.

"I don't need the car," I said.

I turned and walked toward the exit.

I didn't need stitches.

I needed a plane ticket.

Seven days left.