Elena Vitiello POV:

The entire block surrounding Le Bernardin had been locked down by the New York Outfit. Snipers sat on the rooftops, and soldiers guarded the alleyways.

A black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb. Dante stepped out first. He turned and offered me his hand, encased in a black leather glove.

I placed my hand in his and stepped out of the car. I wore a high-necked, long-sleeved black velvet gown. It covered every inch of my bandages, but the fabric clung to my body, turning me into a sharp, lethal silhouette.

Dante placed his hand firmly on the small of my back. We walked through the glass doors together.

The restaurant was packed with the highest-ranking members of the New York underworld. The moment we stepped inside, the room went completely silent.

Dozens of eyes locked onto me. I felt the heavy, suffocating weight of their judgment. I saw the sneers. I felt the hostility radiating from the old-school mobsters who viewed me as nothing more than a broken Chicago toy.

Dante ignored them all. He guided me to the center of the main table and pulled out the chair to his right.

Halfway through the dinner, the tension in the room hit a boiling point.

Sitting directly across from me was Carlo. The man I had exposed that morning. He clearly didn't know I had handed Dante his death warrant yet.

Carlo swirled his red wine. He leaned forward, a nasty grin on his face. He spoke in loud, heavily accented English. He said Chicago women were only good for kneading pasta dough and opening their legs.

A few of the older men at the table chuckled darkly.

The air around Dante turned to ice. His jaw locked. His right hand dropped below the table, his fingers wrapping around the grip of his concealed pistol.

I moved faster. Under the tablecloth, I placed my hand firmly over Dante’s thigh, digging my fingers into his muscle to stop him.

I picked up my linen napkin and dabbed the corner of my mouth.

I looked Carlo dead in the eyes. I opened my mouth and spoke in perfect, flawless old Sicilian—the ancient dialect of the original families, a language almost dead to the modern thugs.

My father had spent millions turning me into the perfect mafia weapon. He just never expected me to use it against men like him.

The entire table froze. The chuckling stopped instantly. Dante’s hand relaxed under mine, and he raised an eyebrow, watching me.

I didn't stop. Still speaking in the ancient dialect, I rattled off a sequence of twelve encrypted GPS coordinates.

Carlo’s face drained of all color. The wine glass in his hand began to shake violently, spilling red drops onto the white tablecloth.

I kept my voice cold and steady. I detailed exactly how he had used that coordinate to smuggle two shipments of stolen cartel weapons past Dante’s borders last month. I named his contact. I named the exact time of the drop.

The silence in the restaurant was deafening. The only sound was the faint clinking of the crystal chandeliers above us.

Carlo began to sweat profusely. He stammered, pointing a trembling finger at me, trying to formulate a lie in English.

I reached into my clutch. I pulled out the folded copy of the IP trace I had printed that morning. I tossed it across the table. It slid to a stop right in front of Carlo’s plate.

The Capos sitting next to him leaned over to look. They gasped.

Dante leaned back in his chair. He looked at me, his chest swelling with raw, unfiltered pride. He snapped his fingers.

Four guards stepped out of the shadows. They grabbed Carlo by his arms and dragged his thrashing, screaming body out the back door.

Dante picked up his wine glass. He looked around the table. His voice was low, but it carried to every corner of the room. From this night forward, her word is my word.

The men at the table quickly lowered their eyes. They raised their glasses in silent submission.

Under the table, Dante turned his hand over. He laced his fingers through mine.

I felt cold metal press against my palm. He slipped a small, heavy black key embedded with a microchip into my hand.

"This is the master key to New York's intelligence network. Now, it's yours."

Elena Vitiello POV:

The next afternoon, the penthouse was quiet. Dante had summoned Dr. Julian, the most exclusive underground surgeon in New York, to check my burns.

Julian was young, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a soft gray sweater. He had a calm, soothing energy that felt entirely out of place in a mafia stronghold.

I sat on the edge of the velvet sofa in the master bedroom. I pulled the collar of my shirt down, exposing the angry red skin and the black surgical stitches crisscrossing my shoulder.

Dante stood less than two feet away. He had his arms crossed over his massive chest. He glared at Julian’s hands with the intensity of a sniper waiting to pull the trigger.

Julian opened his leather medical bag. He pulled out a pair of small surgical scissors. He looked at me, his voice soft and polite. This might pinch a little, Miss Vitiello.

He snipped the first thread and pulled it through the tender skin.

A sharp sting bit into my flesh. My body gave a tiny, involuntary flinch, but I kept my face blank and my mouth shut tight.

Dante’s entire body tensed. The air in the room grew heavy and dangerous.

Julian kept working, his hands quick and precise. You have an incredible tolerance for pain, he murmured, offering me a warm, completely professional smile. Most grown men would be screaming.

Dante did not like that smile.

He took a large step forward. He wedged his massive frame directly between me and Julian, completely blocking my view of the doctor.

Hurry up and finish, Dante snapped, his voice a deep, menacing growl. Stop talking to her.

Julian paused. He pushed his glasses up his nose. He didn't look terrified, just mildly annoyed. Rushing a suture removal leads to tearing, Mr. Moretti. I prefer to minimize the scarring.

The tension in the room spiked. Dante looked like he was five seconds away from throwing the doctor out the window. It was pure, unadulterated territorial aggression.

I watched Dante’s broad back. A strange, fluttering heat bloomed in my chest. No one had ever been this fiercely protective of my physical pain.

Thirty minutes later, the last stitch was out. Julian wiped his forehead with a tissue.

He reached into the bottom of his bag and pulled out a sleek, unbranded silver tube of ointment. He held it out toward me.

This is a custom regenerative compound, Julian explained softly. It needs to be massaged into the scar tissue twice a day. You will need someone to apply it with a firm hand.

Before I could reach for it, Dante’s hand shot out. He snatched the silver tube out of Julian’s grip.

Get out, Dante ordered, staring Julian down.

Julian sighed, packed his bag, nodded respectfully to me, and walked out of the bedroom. The heavy door clicked shut.

The room was suddenly dead silent.

I looked at the tube in Dante’s hand. I reached my hand out. I can do it myself in the bathroom, I said quietly.

Dante stepped out of my reach. His eyes dropped to the ugly, puckered wounds on my shoulder and chest.

How exactly are you going to reach the back of your shoulder blade? he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

I froze. I pulled my shirt up slightly, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness.

Dante didn't hand me the tube. He turned and walked into the massive marble bathroom. He turned on the warm vanity lights.

He stopped in the doorway. He turned his head and looked at me. His eyes were dark, heavy with a hunger he was barely keeping leashed.

"Come here, Elena. Or do you want me to carry you in?"

Elena Vitiello POV:

The bathroom was warm, smelling of expensive cedar soap and faint steam. The amber vanity lights cast a soft, hazy glow over the white marble.

I swallowed hard. I forced my legs to move. I walked into the bathroom and stopped in front of the massive double sink.

Dante stood right behind me. I looked at our reflection in the mirror. He looked like a dark storm cloud hovering over me.

He reached out. His large hands rested on my shoulders. His palms were hot against my skin.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My stomach tightened into a knot.

Slowly, carefully, Dante pushed the fabric of my shirt down. He bared my left shoulder, my collarbone, and the top of my chest.

The mirror reflected the brutal reality. Thick, angry red welts and uneven, raised skin covered my flesh. It looked like a monster had clawed me.

My father's voice echoed in my head. *A flawed product is useless.* A wave of intense shame crashed over me. I tried to turn away, to hide my ruined body from his sight.

Dante’s hands clamped down on my shoulders, holding me firmly in place. He did not let me hide.

He squeezed a dollop of the silver cream onto his fingertips. The ointment was ice cold.

When his fingers made contact with my ruined skin, I gasped.

Dante didn't flinch. He didn't look away in disgust. He began to rub the ointment into my scars using slow, firm, circular motions.

His rough calluses dragged against the hyper-sensitive new skin. A violent shiver racked my spine. My knees felt weak.

The bathroom was completely silent except for our breathing. His chest rose and fell against my back.

I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror. Dante was staring at my scars with a look of absolute reverence. He was touching me like I was the most precious thing in the world.

He finished rubbing in the cream. But he didn't pull his hands away.

His fingertips traced the longest, ugliest scar that ran down my shoulder blade.

Then, Dante lowered his head. I felt his hot breath against my neck.

He pressed his lips directly against the thickest part of the scar. His kiss was firm, burning hot, and completely unapologetic.

A choked sob caught in my throat. The walls I had built around my heart cracked violently. He wasn't just accepting my flaws; he was worshipping them.

Dante lifted his head. He looked at me in the mirror. His green eyes were blazing. His hands slid from my shoulders down to my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest.

Just as his mouth parted to speak, a harsh, electronic ringing shattered the quiet.

The black satellite phone on the bedroom nightstand vibrated violently against the wood.

The spell broke. I gasped, stepping out of his grip, hurriedly pulling my shirt back up over my shoulder.

Dante cursed viciously under his breath. The tenderness vanished from his face, replaced by cold, murderous annoyance. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the bathroom to answer the phone.

I leaned against the marble sink, trying to slow my racing heart.

A minute later, Dante walked back to the doorway. He held the phone in his hand. The muscles in his jaw were ticking rapidly.

"News from Chicago. Luca and Matteo saved the Underboss's life in a gang shootout last night. They've regained their titles as Lieutenants."