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."

Elena Vitiello POV:

The mahogany conference table was covered in thick financial reports.

I sat at the head of the table, my fingers trailing down the columns of numbers. The intense focus I used to reserve for hacking security firewalls was now channeled into legal Wall Street acquisitions. I was building a new empire.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the deep emerald green of my silk blouse. I felt sharp. I felt in control.

The heavy double doors swung open. The sharp click of heels echoed in the hallway. My secretary stepped inside, leading a man in a pristine navy-blue tailored suit. He wore thin gold-rimmed glasses and carried a sleek leather briefcase.

This was Julian. The most ruthless M&A lawyer in Manhattan. He represented the absolute peak of legitimate power in New York's high society.

Julian placed his briefcase on the table. When his eyes met mine, a flash of undeniable, stunned admiration crossed his face.

I closed the financial folder and stood up. I extended my right hand with easy confidence. "Julian. Punctual as always."

He took my hand. His grip was firm, just the right amount of pressure. "Mrs. Vitiello. Your instincts on the tech merger were terrifyingly accurate. I’m impressed."

We sat down. Julian connected his tablet to the projector, throwing a complex web of shell company cash flows onto the whiteboard.

I leaned forward, my eyes scanning the data. I picked up a red laser pointer and circled two tiny, obscure funds hiding in the Cayman Islands. "There," I said. "Those two accounts are bleeding capital. That’s their vulnerability."

Julian pushed his gold glasses up the bridge of his nose. The polite admiration in his eyes instantly upgraded to the burning heat of finding an intellectual equal.

We stood up together, moving to the whiteboard. We stood shoulder to shoulder, using red markers to slash through the enemy’s corporate structure, plotting a total takeover.

I let out a genuine, relaxed laugh. It was the first time since arriving in New York that I felt the pure, intoxicating rush of career achievement. I wasn't a pawn. I wasn't a mafia bride meant to breed and stay silent. I was a player.

Then, the air pressure in the corridor outside plummeted.

Dante appeared behind the glass wall of the conference room. He didn't come alone. Four massive guards in black suits flanked him.

He stopped dead. His eyes locked onto the scene inside. Extreme, primal territorial aggression rolled off him in waves. He couldn't stand another male breathing the same air as his obsession.

Dante’s gaze snapped to Julian. He saw the way the lawyer was looking at me—with open, unfiltered admiration.

Dante’s long fingers curled into fists. The sound of his knuckles cracking echoed even through the thick glass.

Outside, the guards stopped breathing. My secretary shrank behind her desk, trembling.

Dante didn't bother knocking. He raised his heavy leather shoe and kicked the solid mahogany door. It slammed open with the force of a bomb going off, hitting the wall with a deafening crack.

My laughter died. Julian spun around, his body instantly tense.

My smile froze as I met Dante’s eyes. They were pitch black. An absolute abyss of rage.

Dante stalked into the room. His heavy footsteps sank into the cashmere carpet. He completely ignored Julian’s extended hand. He looked right through the lawyer, his icy, lethal glare locking onto me.

The oxygen in the room vanished. Julian swallowed hard, instinctively taking a half-step back as he felt the physical weight of Dante's killing intent.

"Dante," I started, keeping my voice level. "We are just finalizing the M&A—"

Dante didn't say a single word. He closed the distance in a second. His large hand clamped around my wrist. His grip was immovable, possessing terrifying strength, yet he carefully angled his thumb to avoid crushing my bones.

Before Julian could even process what was happening, Dante pulled me hard against his chest.

He dragged me out of the conference room. My stiletto caught on the edge of the carpet, and I stumbled.

Dante didn't let me fall. He simply wrapped his arm under my knees and scooped me up, lifting me into his arms like I weighed nothing.

He carried me down the silent, terrified hallway. He kicked open the door to his private CEO office and carried me into his absolute domain.

"Did you forget who you belong to?"