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.

Elena Rossi's POV:

The penthouse was eerily quiet.

I bandaged my arm using the first-aid kit I found under the sink. The cut on my cheek wasn't deep, but it would be enough to leave a mark.

Good.

I wanted a scar. I wanted something permanent to remember the night I finally woke up.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

It was Sofia.

Sofia: Darling, so sorry about your dress. But honestly, white doesn't suit you. It's a bride's color. You looked like a stain standing next to Dante. Have fun bonding with the puppy. Or did it run away too?

It was followed by a photo.

A selfie. She was in the passenger seat of a Maybach—Dante's car.

Dante was driving. His hand rested possessively on her thigh.

I didn't cry.

I put the phone down and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The rain had finally stopped. It was 2:00 AM.

I pulled on a plain black hoodie and slipped out of the penthouse. I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of the Vitiello estate.

The guards at the gate the guards at the gate recognized me. They assumed I was there to see Marco or to grab something from my old servant's quarters.

They waved me through without even a second glance.

I walked across the damp grass to the old peach tree in the back garden.

Seven years ago, on Dante's eighteenth birthday, we had buried a time capsule under its roots. He wasn't the Don then; he was just a boy.

I dropped to my knees in the mud.

I didn't use a shovel; I dug with my bare hands.

The earth was cold and heavy.

My fingernails snapped against the hard dirt. The fresh bandages on my arm soaked through, black mud mixing with bright blood.

I didn't care.

My fingers brushed against metal.

I pulled out the rusted iron box and pried the lid open. Inside lay two folded slips of paper and a tarnished silver locket.

I unfolded my paper first.

I will serve and love Dante Vitiello until the end of my days. I will be his light.

I stared at those words.

I had written them in blood. Literally. I had pricked my finger to seal the vow.

What a foolish, naive girl I had been.

Next, I unfolded Dante's paper.

I want to see again. I want the Family to be strong. I want Sofia to be safe.

Sofia.

Even then, even when she ignored him, even when I sat beside him, listening to his dreams, his wish was for her safety.

I wasn't in his wishes.

I took my paper and tore it into shreds.

I walked over to the drainage grate near the fountain and let the pieces fall. I watched the dark water carry them away, down into the sewer where they belonged.

Then, I picked up the locket.

He had given it to me the night his sight returned. He called it a promise.

I walked back to the tree and dug a new hole, deeper this time. I threw the silver chain into the mud.

I scooped the dirt back over it and patted it down until the ground looked undisturbed.

I wasn't just burying a necklace.

I was burying Elena Rossi.

My phone vibrated again.

Dante: Are you okay? Luca said you refused the car.

I stared at the screen. His name no longer made my heart race.

I replied.

Me: I'm fine. I don't need you.

Then I turned and walked out of the garden, leaving my heart to rot beneath the peach tree.