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."

Elena Vitiello POV:

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

My breath stopped. For one agonizing second, the air left my lungs. The memory of the dusty Chicago warehouse flashed behind my eyes—Luca holding a gun, the barrel shifting away from me and pointing toward Sofia. He had made his choice then.

Dante’s eyes narrowed. He caught the microscopic freeze in my posture. The cold annoyance in his dark eyes instantly morphed into a violent, suffocating possessiveness. He was a man who controlled everything. The mere thought that a ghost from my past could still affect my breathing ignited a murderous rage inside him.

I didn't let the silence drag. I lowered my eyes and reached for the edges of my silk robe. I pulled the fabric up, dragging it over my bare shoulders. I tied the belt tight around my waist. I wasn't the weak girl who cried over betrayals anymore. Covering my ruined skin was a physical barrier, sealing away the vulnerability I had just exposed to him.

The heavy silk completely hid the silver, jagged burn scar on my back. It was my brand. The permanent line dividing the victim I was from the woman I was becoming.

I lifted my chin. I looked at Dante, and a slow, hollow smile curved my lips. There was absolutely no warmth in it.

I stepped past him, walking out of the bathroom and toward the massive bedroom window overlooking the glittering New York skyline. The glass was cold against my fingertips.

"Trash is still trash, Dante," I said, my voice dropping to a freezing calm. "Even if it crawls out of the mud, it still stinks of the gutter."

The heavy, oppressive darkness in Dante’s eyes vanished. It was replaced by a sudden, intense flare of pure appreciation.

He didn't say a word. He casually tossed the black satellite phone onto the mattress. He closed the distance between us in three massive strides, backing me up until my spine hit the cold, hard tiles near the bathroom frame.

He boxed me in. His head dipped, his lips brushing against my earlobe. He bit down, hard enough to sting, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core.

"I love your ruthless heart, Elena," he murmured against my skin, the tension between us igniting into a roaring fire all over again.

***

Luca POV:

The water was scalding hot, but I couldn't feel it.

I stood under the showerhead in the underground locker room of the Chicago Outfit. Blood swirled around my boots, running down the drain in thick, dark ribbons. My jaw throbbed with a dull, unhealed ache. My knuckles were split open, raw and bleeding. This was the price. I had fought like a rabid dog, putting my life on the line for the Underboss just to claw my way out of the bottom.

Matteo sat on the wooden bench outside the stalls. He was sweating, his face pale as he rubbed the stump of his amputated leg. He was in agony, but his eyes were wide and manic.

I twisted the faucet off. I wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at my reflection. My face was bruised, my eyes wild and violent. I dried off and pushed the locker room door open.

Two brand-new, custom-tailored suits hung on the rack.

I pulled the expensive fabric over my shoulders. I adjusted the lapels, trying to summon the arrogance I used to carry. I was the Prince of Chicago again. I thought the expensive wool could cover the rotting, hollow feeling in my chest.

Matteo struggled to pull his trousers over his prosthetic. He looked up at me, grinning through the pain. "We did it, Luca. We have the rank. We can finally go to New York and bring her back."

I gripped the edge of the locker. My vision tunneled. "She’s just throwing a tantrum," I muttered, my obsession twisting my reality. "She just needs to see I've changed."

An hour later, our black sedan parked on Michigan Avenue. I walked into an old-money jewelry store. The clerk immediately brought out a tray of flawless pink diamonds.

"No," I snapped, ignoring them. I pointed to a basic, classic-cut diamond ring in the display case. It was the exact style I thought Elena had glanced at three years ago. I was still looking at her through the lens of the past, completely blind to the fact that she now held the master key to New York’s intelligence network.

I drained my newly reinstated salary advance to buy it. It was cheap for a Lieutenant, but I didn't care. I gripped the velvet box in my palm like a lifeline.

We drove straight to the Underboss’s estate.

The study smelled of heavy cigar smoke. The Underboss sat behind his leather desk, his dark eyes scrutinizing my bruised face.

"I want the diplomatic assignment," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I want to lead the delegation to New York to negotiate the new trade routes."

The Underboss took a slow drag of his cigar. He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, his eyes lingering on my broken jaw for two long seconds. Chicago needed to test New York’s boundaries, and he knew Matteo and I were desperate enough to be the perfect sacrificial lambs.

He picked up a gold pen. He signed the transit documents with a sharp scratch.

He tossed the papers across the desk. He looked at me with a chilling, quiet pity—the kind of look you give a dead man walking.

I didn't understand the look. I snatched the papers with both hands. My eyes burned with a sick, fanatic devotion.

"Elena, wait for me. I will bring you home."