Luca Rossi POV

The waiting room at Mercy Hospital was finally empty.

Sofia was fine.

The doctors said it was mild whiplash, nothing permanent, but she was wearing a neck brace that looked three sizes too big. It swallowed her whole, making her look like a fragile doll that had been carelessly tossed aside.

"I'm so glad you came," she whispered, her fingers tightening around Matteo's hand. "I thought I was going to die."

I checked my watch.

It had been four hours.

My stomach tightened. We missed the dorm move-in window.

"We should go check on Elena," I said, the guilt already itching under my skin. "She's probably pissed we didn't show up to help unpack."

"Buy her flowers," Sofia suggested weakly. "She loves lilies."

We dropped Sofia off at her apartment with a nurse and drove straight to the University of Chicago. We stopped at a high-end florist and bought a massive bouquet of white lilies. They were crisp, pristine, and ridiculous. The kind that said I'm sorry I'm an idiot, please forgive me.

We pulled up to the main residential gate, the engine of my car purring impatiently.

"Call her," Matteo said, staring at the brick buildings.

I dialed her number.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

I frowned, pulling the phone away from my ear to stare at the screen.

"Service is down," I said, though the bars on my screen were full. "Let's just go in."

We walked up to the security booth.

"Delivery for Elena Vitiello," I said, flashing my winning smile—the one that usually opened doors. "Freshman dorms."

The guard typed into his computer, his face bored.

He frowned.

"Vitiello?" he asked. "Spell it."

"V-I-T-I-E-L-L-O," I said slowly, leaning in. "Daughter of the Underboss. You should have her flagged as VIP. Check the donor list if you have to."

The guard shook his head, unimpressed by my tone.

"I have no record of an Elena Vitiello enrolled here."

My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

"Check again," Matteo growled, slamming his hand against the window ledge. "She transferred her enrollment months ago."

"I'm looking at the active roster, son," the guard said, turning his monitor slightly away. "She's not here."

We didn't wait for him to finish. We ran back to the car.

I drove to the Estate. I broke every speed limit, weaving through traffic like a madman. Something was wrong. The silence from her phone wasn't just anger. It was absence.

We screeched up to the iron gates of the Vitiello mansion, tires smoking.

The family guards were there. Armed. They stepped in front of the car, rifles raised in a way that wasn't ceremonial.

"Open the gate!" I yelled, leaning out the window. "We need to see Elena!"

The head of security, a man named Rocco who had taught us how to shoot when we were barely tall enough to hold a gun, walked up to the driver's side.

His face was stone.

"Turn around, boys," Rocco said.

"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice rising. "Is she inside?"

Rocco looked at the flowers in the passenger seat. He looked at them like they were garbage.

"Miss Elena has left the state," Rocco said.

The world stopped spinning.

"What do you mean left the state?" Matteo asked, his voice cracking under the weight of the words. "For how long?"

Rocco adjusted his grip on his rifle.

"Indefinitely."

"Where did she go?" I screamed, slamming the steering wheel.

"Not your concern anymore," Rocco said coldly. "You are not welcome on Vitiello land. Turn around. Or we open fire."

We turned around. We drove to the registrar's office in the city, the only place that would have her records. Matteo dragged the clerk out of his chair by his collar.

"Check it again!" Matteo roared.

"She withdrew!" the clerk squeaked, terrified. "Months ago! The transcript request was sent to... here!"

He pointed at the screen.

I looked. The words blurred for a heartbeat, then sharpened into a nightmare.

Columbia University. New York.

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

"New York," Matteo whispered, his face draining of color. "Luca. That's Moretti territory."

It wasn't just a different school.

It was a different world. It was the lion's den.

The New York Famiglia and the Chicago Outfit had a truce, but it was as thin as ice. Soldiers didn't just walk into New York.

And Elena... Elena had walked right into the arms of the enemy.

"She belongs to us!" Matteo roared, kicking the heavy oak desk.

"She did," I said, staring at the screen where her name blinked next to a city that felt a million miles away.

"Until we chose the rat."

Elena Vitiello POV

The Gulfstream kissed the tarmac at JFK, settling with a heavy, expensive finality.

I looked out the window.

New York rose up to meet me in shades of steel and concrete. It didn't look welcoming. It looked like a fortress.

Good.

I was done with soft things.

The flight attendant unsealed the hatch, and the cabin pressure equalized with a hiss. The wind whipped my hair across my face as I stepped onto the stairs.

A phalanx of black SUVs waited on the tarmac.

Men in dark suits stood like statues by the doors. They weren't slouching. They weren't checking their phones. They were soldiers. Real ones, eyes scanning the perimeter, hands hovering near concealed holsters.

In front of the lead car stood a man.

He was tall. Imposing.

Broad shoulders filled out a suit that cost more than my tuition. He wasn't wearing a coat, despite the biting chill. He seemed impervious to it, as if the cold didn't dare touch him.

His hair was dark, swept back, revealing a face that was all sharp angles and hard lines.

Dante Moretti.

The Capo of New York.

My betrothed.

I walked down the stairs. My arm throbbed in its sling. Every step sent a jolt of pain radiating through my shoulder, but I kept my spine straight.

I reached the bottom.

Dante stepped forward.

He didn't smile. No softness marred the brutal elegance of his features. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and terrifyingly focused. They swept over me, dissecting me, cataloging everything.

The sling.

The pale skin.

The lack of fear.

"Elena Vitiello," he said.

His voice was a low rumble, dark and textured like gravel grinding under a heavy boot.

"Dante Moretti," I replied.

I didn't curtsy. I didn't offer my hand to be kissed. I met his gaze head-on.

A flicker of something passed through his eyes. Respect? Amusement?

"Welcome to New York, principessa," he said.

Then, he moved.

He reached out and opened the car door for me himself.

His men didn't move, but I saw their eyes widen slightly before they disciplined their expressions. A Capo didn't open doors. Not unless he wanted to make a statement.

"Thank you," I said.

I slid into the leather seat. It was warm. He must have had the heat running, waiting for me.

He got in beside me. The door closed, sealing us in a heavy, soundproofed silence.

"Your father sent your files," Dante said as the car began to move, gliding smoothly onto the exit ramp. "But he left out the details of your injury."

He looked at my sling.

"A burn," I said.

"Accident?"

"Betrayal."

Dante turned his head fully toward me. The air in the car grew heavy, charged with a sudden, violent potential.

"Names?" he asked.

"Irrelevant," I said, keeping my voice steady. "They are in the past."

"Nothing is irrelevant," Dante said softly. "Especially not when it marks what is mine."

A shiver went down my spine.

It wasn't fear.

It was the sudden realization that I had traded two boys who played with guns for a man who was the weapon.

Elena Vitiello POV

The penthouse was situated near the Columbia campus, a fortress of glass and steel overlooking Central Park. It was modern, cold, and impeccably secure.

Dante carried my bags in with an effortless grace, setting them down in the foyer.

"The master suite is yours," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "I have a place across town, but I will stay in the guest wing for the first week. To ensure you are settled."

"You don't have to babysit me," I said, though the protest lacked heat.

I started to take off my coat, reaching for the buttons with my good hand. Immediately, I winced. The movement pulled sharply at the stitched skin on my shoulder, a reminder of the fire that hadn't yet faded. I hissed through my teeth, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

Dante was there in a second.

He didn't grab me. He didn't crowd me. Instead, he hovered, his hands inches from my shoulders, waiting for permission.

"Let me," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument, yet soft.

I nodded, dropping my hands.

He carefully peeled the heavy wool coat from my good arm first. Then he moved to the left side. His movements were not just careful; they were surgical. Precise. Terrifyingly gentle.

He slid the coat off, revealing the silk blouse I wore underneath and the stark white bandages that peeked out from the collar.

His eyes narrowed, darkening instantly to pools of black ice. He reached out and lightly traced the edge of the gauze with one finger, a ghost of a touch that sent a shiver down my spine—not of fear, but of electricity.

"Who did this?" he asked again.

His voice was quiet, but it vibrated with a leashed violence so potent I could feel it in the air between us.

"Does it matter?" I asked, looking away.

"Yes."

He stepped closer, invading my personal space until he towered over me. He smelled of expensive cologne, clean cotton, and something metallic—like the barrel of a gun.

"You are under my protection now, Elena. That means your pain is my insult. An insult to me. An insult to my house."

I looked up at him, searching his face.

Luca and Matteo had watched me burn and then bought flowers for the girl who held the fire. But Dante Moretti looked at the bandages like he wanted to burn the world down simply for existing on the same planet as my scar.

"It was a firework," I finally admitted. "At the docks."

"And your guards?"

"They were... distracted."

Dante's jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek.

"Incompetence is a disease," he said, his tone icy. "I don't allow it in my city."

He stepped back, giving me space to breathe.

"Rest. The doctor will be here in an hour to change the dressing."

"I can do it myself."

"You can," he agreed. "But you won't. You are a Queen here, Elena. Not a soldier."

He turned to leave, his strides long and purposeful.

"Dante?"

He stopped at the door, his hand on the frame.

"Why?" I asked. "Why agree to the marriage? You don't need Chicago's money."

He looked back at me. His eyes were dark pools, unreadable and bottomless.

"Power isn't just about money, principessa."

He looked at my bandaged arm, then back to my eyes, holding my gaze captive.

"It's about having the things no one else is strong enough to keep."

He walked out, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

I stood alone in the silent apartment. For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel cold. I felt seen. And I felt dangerous. Because now, I had a monster of my own.