A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the room.

Even the bodyguards stationed by the door averted their gaze, shifting uncomfortably in their suits.

"Dante," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I didn't do it."

"Knees," he barked.

Sofia sighed, a sound of exaggerated theatricality. "Dante, honey, don't be so harsh. Maybe she just needs a drink to calm her nerves. A toast, perhaps? To my safety?"

She gestured languidly to a bottle of whiskey resting on the low table.

"Drink it," Sofia commanded, her eyes gleaming 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 let alcohol touch my lips in five years.

When Dante was blind, he used to drink to drown the darkness. He became a monster when the liquor took hold, a creature of rage and sorrow. So I stopped drinking to be the sober one. The anchor in his storm.

My tolerance was non-existent.

"I can't," I choked out.

Dante leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "You disrespected the Family, Elena. You drink, or you leave New York in a body bag. Choose."

He was bluffing. Or maybe he wasn't.

I couldn't read the man behind the mask anymore.

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. In a blur of motion, I palmed the small shaker of mustard powder.

While they watched, thinking I was hesitating, I tipped my head back and slipped a handful of the yellow dust into my mouth, dry-swallowing it in one agonizing gulp.

An old servant's trick. It was a violent emetic; it would force me to purge everything before the alcohol could stop my heart.

Then, I started drinking.

The whiskey hit my throat like molten lead.

One glass.

Two glasses.

Sofia clapped her hands, delighted as a child at a grotesque circus.

Three glasses.

The room began to tilt on its axis.

Four.

I gagged, fighting the urge to retch too soon.

Five.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and humiliating.

Dante was watching me. His face was carved from granite, but his hand gripped his knee so tightly his knuckles had turned bone-white.

Six.

I swayed, the floor rushing up to meet me.

Seven.

My fingers went numb. I dropped the glass. It shattered, sending shards of crystal skittering across the floor.

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

He stood abruptly and seized my wrist. "That's enough, Elena."

I yanked my arm away from him.

The alcohol flooded my veins with a reckless, burning courage.

"Are you happy, Don Vitiello?" I slurred, flinging a hand toward Sofia. "Is she worth it? Does she know how to hold you when the nightmares tear you apart? Does she know which song lulls you back to the dark?"

"Elena, stop," he warned, a dangerous edge to his tone.

"I hope she burns you," I spat, the words tasting of bile and whiskey. "I hope she burns you down to the ground."

I turned and stumbled toward the door.

"Elena!" he shouted.

I made it to the hallway before my legs finally betrayed me.

The mustard powder kicked in with violent force.

I collapsed, heaving, my body rejecting the poison and the grief all at once.

Darkness swarmed the edges of my vision, narrowing the world to a pinprick.

I felt strong arms lift me up effortlessly.

"Call the car!" Dante was roaring, his composure shattered. "Get the damn car!"

"Dante, wait!" Sofia's voice echoed shrilly from the room. "You can't leave me!"

"Shut up, Sofia!"

He carried me, holding me tight against him.

I pressed my face against his chest.

It smelled like sandalwood and betrayal.

"Let me go," I whispered into his shirt, my consciousness fading. "Please, just let me go."

*

I woke up in a hospital bed.

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled my nose.

Dante was sitting in the chair next to me. His head was buried in his hands.

He looked wrecked-a king sitting in the ruins of his own making.

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

"Where is she?" I asked, my gaze fixed on the white ceiling tiles. "Where is your wife?"

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

"You told me to."

"I was angry. I didn't mean..." He trailed off, the excuse dying in the air.

He reached for my hand.

I pulled it under the sheet, hiding it from his touch.

"Go back to your duties, Dante," I said, my voice cold as ice. "The maid's daughter will be fine."

He flinched as if I had struck him.

"Stop calling yourself that."

"It's what I am," I said. "And it's all I'll ever be to you."

He stood up, pacing the small room like a caged animal. "I'm doing this for the Family. You don't understand politics."

"I understand loyalty," I countered. "And I understand that you have none."

He stopped pacing. He looked at me with a terrifying intensity, his dark eyes burning into mine.

"You are mine," he said, his voice a low growl. "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 pulled the IV out of my arm.

Blood dripped onto the pristine white sheets, a stark red stain.

Nine days left.

Elena Rossi POV

I had become invisible again.

I moved through the penthouse like a phantom, spiriting my belongings away into boxes whenever Dante wasn't looking.

He interpreted my silence as sulking. He believed I was finally "learning my place."

I was in the hallway, my hand hovering over the study door, when the sound of his voice stopped me cold.

"She's calming down, Mother," Dante said, his tone dismissive. "Yes, I know about the trip. She thinks it's a vacation."

I froze.

"Isabella," he continued, the name rolling smoothly off his tongue, "Elena agreed to go to the villa in Tuscany for a few weeks. Just until the wedding heat dies down."

He was lying to his mother. Or perhaps, Isabella was lying to him.

"She signed the papers, Dante," Isabella's voice drifted faintly from the speakerphone, tinny but unmistakable. "She knows she's leaving for good."

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

If he knew I had signed the exit deal...

Dante laughed, a dark, rich sound that used to make my knees weak. "She signed the NDA to secure the allowance, Mother. She's not going anywhere. She's obsessed with me. She'd never leave."

He actually believed it.

His arrogance was my shield.

I backed away into the shadows, silent as the grave.

*

That night, he threw a party.

"For you," he said, pressing a velvet box into my hand. Inside lay diamond earrings, cold and heavy. "For your birthday. I know I missed the actual day."

My birthday was last week. The same day he had abandoned me on the side of the road.

The Estate ballroom was suffocating, filled with the same vultures who had watched me bleed at the auction.

They whispered as I walked in, their voices like the rustling of dry leaves.

*The mistress. The kept woman. The charity case.*

Dante kept a possessive hand on my lower back, branding me.

Then, the double doors swung open.

Sofia entered.

The air left my lungs in a rush.

She was wearing a gown of pale blue silk, embroidered with delicate silver vines that shimmered under the chandeliers.

It was a custom design.

I knew this because I had watched Dante sketch it.

Three years ago, when his vision had just begun to return-when he could see nothing but shadows and me-he had drawn it on a cocktail napkin.

*For you,* he had promised, tracing 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 to us.

"Happy Birthday, Elena," she chirped, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. "Dante told me he designed this dress. It's exquisite, isn't it? A bit tight in the chest, but I made it work."

She smiled, a predator baring its teeth.

Dante shifted uncomfortably. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"I have 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 were perked, its teeth sharp and white.

I took a sharp step back. My breath hitched in my throat.

When I was ten, the head of security's dogs had gotten loose in the servant quarters. One of them had torn my calf open. I still bore the jagged, silvery scars.

Dante knew this.

He *knew*.

"His name is Ari," Sofia said, thrusting the basket toward my chest. "Take him. He's a protector."

The puppy barked, a high-pitched snap.

I flinched violently, knocking into a passing waiter.

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

"I... I can't," I stammered, my palms slick with sweat.

"Dante," Sofia pouted, turning to him. "She's refusing my gift."

Dante looked at the crowd. They were watching. Waiting to see if the mistress would defy the future Donna.

"Elena," Dante said, his voice tight with warning. "Take the dog. It's a gesture of peace."

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

"Just take the damn dog!" he snapped.

I reached out with trembling hands.

The puppy, sensing my terror, lunged.

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

It bolted.

It ran straight into a towering pyramid of champagne glasses.

*Crash.*

The sound was deafening as hundreds of glasses shattered.

Dante moved instantly.

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

Glass rained down like jagged hail.

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

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

He checked her face. Her arms. Her hair.

"Are you okay?" he asked her, his voice frantic.

"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 second, regret flashed in his eyes.

But then the crowd murmured.

"Get her to the ER," Dante barked at a nearby soldier, his mask slamming back into place. "Clean this mess up."

He turned back to Sofia.

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

He walked her out.

Again.

I stood in the ruins of the party, bleeding, while the guests laughed behind their hands.

The soldier grabbed my uninjured arm roughly. "Let's go, Miss Rossi."

I looked at the shattered glass glittering on the floor.

It looked exactly like my life.

"No," I said, yanking my arm free.

"I'll take myself."

I walked out into the night alone.

Seven days left.

And I was going to make every single one of them count toward his destruction.

The apartment was eerily quiet.

I stood in the middle of the living room, listening to the silence. There was no traffic noise from the street below, no hum from the refrigerator. Just the sound of my own breathing.

I walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light.

The woman in the mirror was a stranger.

My hair was a disaster-tangled, soaked, plastered to my scalp in some places and sticking out in others. My eyes were red and swollen, yet completely dry. As for my face... my face was a living record of exactly what I'd been through over the last few hours.

The cut on my cheek had stopped bleeding, leaving a dark red trail from my cheekbone down to the corner of my mouth. It wasn't deep enough to need stitches, but it would definitely scar.

Good.

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

I found the first-aid kit under the sink-a pristine white box that looked like it had never been opened. Everything inside was perfectly organized, the bandages still wrapped in their plastic film.

Did Dante even know where the first-aid kit was? I wondered. Probably not. He had people for that. He had me.

With trembling hands, I wrapped a bandage around my forearm. I wasn't a nurse, but over the years, I'd patched up enough of Dante's men to pick up the basics.

It was ironic, really. I'd spent so much time taking care of everyone else, yet I'd never learned how to take care of myself.

I was just securing the bandage with medical tape when my phone buzzed on the nightstand, shattering the quiet.

The sound was so sudden, so jarring in the empty apartment, that I nearly dropped the scissors.

I walked into the bedroom and picked up the phone.

Sophia.

Her name glared on my screen like an accusation.

She had unblocked me just to send a text.

I almost didn't open it.

Sophia: Sweetie, so sorry about your dress. But honestly, white isn't your color anyway. It's for brides. You looked like a stain standing next to Dante. Have fun hanging out with the dog. Or did it run away too?

A photo came next.

It was a selfie. She was sitting in the passenger seat of a Maybach-my husband's car.

Her hair was immaculate, her makeup flawless, and her smile dazzling. She looked like she had just won the lottery.

Dante was driving. His hand rested casually, yet possessively, high on her thigh.

I stared at that picture for a long time.

My eyes traced the lines of his face-his sharp jawline, his dark hair, the intense focus in his eyes even when he was just driving.

But it was the face of a stranger.

Because the Dante I knew wouldn't do this. The Dante I knew wouldn't have his hand on another woman's thigh while his wife was bleeding in an alley. The Dante I knew wouldn't let his mistress send me pictures of them having fun.

But that Dante didn't exist.

He never had.

He was a figment of my imagination. I had taken a broken, angry boy and molded him into something he was never meant to be. I had written a love story in my head, casting him as the hero, when in reality, he was just the villain.

I didn't cry.

I was done crying.

I set the phone down and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The rain had finally stopped. The city sprawled out beneath me, glittering yet cold and unforgiving. Somewhere out there, people were sleeping peacefully. Somewhere, couples were curled up together, dreaming of forever.

It was 2:00 a.m.

I threw on a plain black hoodie and slipped out of the penthouse without a backward glance.

The elevator ride felt endless. The lobby was deserted. The doorman barely glanced up as I walked past.

Outside, the air smelled of wet concrete and infinite possibilities.

When I reached the gates of the Vitiello estate, the guards recognized me.

"Bit late for a visit," one of them noted, his tone flat and disinterested.

"I forgot something," I said. "I'll be quick."

He waved me through without another look.

I walked the familiar paths, but with foreign eyes.

I crossed the damp grass toward the rear gardens, walking past the rose bushes I'd pruned countless times, past the fountain where I used to sit and read, past the bench where Dante had kissed me for the first time.

The old peach tree stood at the edge of the property, its branches gnarled yet steadfast.

Seven years ago, on Dante's eighteenth birthday, we had buried a time capsule among its roots.

I still remembered that day vividly. The party had been extravagant-hundreds of guests, a live band, and catering from the city. But Dante had quietly slipped away from the crowd. He found me hiding out in the gardens and asked me to help him bury something.

"I want to remember who I am," he had said.

He wasn't the Godfather then. And I was already in love with him.

I had loved him so much it ached.

I dropped to my knees in the mud.

The rain had soaked the earth, making it soft, but that didn't make digging any easier. I didn't bother looking for a shovel; I dug with my bare hands. The dirt was freezing, heavy, and gritty. It wedged under my fingernails and stuck to the cuts on my palms.

My fingers scraped against rocks-small pebbles at first, then larger stones. I pried them out and tossed them aside. The fresh bandages on my arm were soaked through, black mud mixing with bright blood. The cut on my cheek throbbed with every heartbeat.

I didn't care.

I was desperately searching for answers. I was searching for proof that I hadn't just imagined it all. I was searching for the girl I used to be-the girl who believed in wishes, promises, and happily-ever-afters.

My fingers hit metal.

The sound was dull and hollow.

I scraped away more dirt until I saw it-the rusty tin box we had buried. Most of the paint had peeled away, exposing the corroded metal underneath.

I yanked it out of the ground and set it on my lap.

I pried open the lid.

Inside were two folded pieces of paper and a tarnished silver locket.

The paper was yellowed with age, its edges soft from the dampness. They were still folded exactly as we had left them-neat little squares carrying our deepest desires.

I unfolded my paper first.

My own handwriting stared back at me-loopy and childish, written by someone who still believed in fairy tales.

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 on a rose thorn and used the blood as ink. It felt so romantic, so poetic at the time. A blood oath. A promise written with the only thing I truly owned.

What a stupid, naive girl I had been.

What a waste of blood.

I traced the words with my fingertips, feeling the faint indentations on the paper, the physical marks of everything I had given up. Seven years. Seven years of devotion. Seven years of loving a man who had never loved me back.

And for what?

So I could sit in a mud puddle at 3:00 a.m. and dig up the proof of my own stupidity?

I set my note aside and unfolded Dante's.

His handwriting was neater, sharper than mine. He had pressed down hard on the paper, leaving grooves that were still clearly visible all these years later.

I wish to see again. I wish for my family to be strong. I wish for Sophia to be safe.

Sophia.

Even back then. Even when she ignored him, even when she dated other boys, even when I sat beside him every single day, listening to his dreams, reading to him, loving him-he had still used his wish to pray for her safety.

Not mine.

Never me.

I was never part of his plan. I wasn't even a footnote. I was just the shovel he used to bury me.