Elena Vitello POV

Dante didn't speak on the drive from the hospital to my apartment.

He drove like the road belonged to him. Aggressive. Smooth.

He pulled up in front of the building I shared with Luca and didn't unlock the doors immediately.

"You sure you want to go back in there?" he asked, voice low.

I looked at the building.

It had felt like home once. Now it was just a cage I'd finally escaped.

"I need to pack, Dante."

"I can buy you new things. Better things."

"I know," I said, turning to look at his profile.

The scar above his brow twitched.

"But I need to clear out the rot before I can plant something new."

He nodded, a sharp jerk of his chin.

"I'll wait here. If you're not down in an hour, I'm coming up. And if I come up, I can't promise that soldier survives the night."

I got out.

The apartment was silent when I walked in.

Luca sat on the couch, head in his hands.

He looked up when I walked in.

"Elena, thank God," he said, standing, reaching for me.

I stepped back.

"Don't touch me," I said.

He froze. His hands hung in the air.

"Baby, please. The hospital... Sofia... She's sick. She's dying. I was just trying to be a good person. You know I have a soft heart."

A soft heart.

A heart soft enough to betray me for a woman who mocked me to his friends.

I walked past him, into the bedroom. I pulled two large suitcases from the closet.

"What are you doing?" Luca asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"I'm staying with my parents until the wedding," I said. "It's tradition. Remember? Bad luck to see the bride."

He looked relieved.

He had no idea whose bride I was. I didn't explain.

"Okay," he said, running a hand through his hair. "That makes sense."

"Your mom can help you calm down."

I started shoving clothes into the bags.

Not everything. Just the things that mattered. The silk robe my grandmother gave me. The vintage pearl necklace from my confirmation.

My eyes landed on the nightstand.

The ebony velvet box was still there. Right where he'd left it before he ran after me to the hospital.

I smiled. A cold, thin thing.

Good. Let him find it later. Let it haunt him.

I opened the jewelry box on the dresser. Inside was the diamond necklace Luca had given me last year for our anniversary.

He'd put it on me himself at dinner. Made a show of it while the waiter poured champagne.

Now I knew he'd probably bought Sofia a bracelet that same day.

I picked up the necklace. It was heavy. Cold.

I walked to the window.

"Elena?" Luca asked.

I opened the window and threw the necklace into the alley below.

He gasped. "Are you crazy?"

"That was ten thousand dollars!"

"It was dirty money, Luca," I said, turning to look at the empty box. "I don't want it touching my skin."

His phone buzzed on the dresser.

He ignored it. It buzzed again.

"Check your phone," I said. "Might be your dying girl."

He frowned but picked it up.

He paled. He shoved the phone in his pocket fast, but I saw it. A flash of a photo on the screen.

Skin. Lots of skin.

Sofia wasn't dying. She was sending him nudes.

My own phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out.

A text from an unknown number.

A photo. Luca and Sofia.

In this bed. On my sheets.

The timestamp was three days ago.

The text below it read: He says you're boring.

I looked at Luca. He was watching me, trying to gauge my reaction.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry.

I just forwarded the photo to a secure folder labeled "Evidence."

I zipped the suitcase.

"I'm leaving," I said.

I walked past him, dragging the suitcase.

He tried to grab my arm. "Elena. Don't. I love you."

I looked at his hand on my arm.

Five years ago, that touch had felt like safety.

Now it felt like a chain.

Elena Vitello POV

"Let go of me." My voice was low. Almost a whisper.

Luca didn't let go. His grip tightened. His fingers bit into my skin.

"You're overreacting, Elena. You're my fiancée. You can't walk out because you're jealous of a charity case."

"Jealous?" I laughed. "I'm not jealous, Luca. I'm disgusted."

His eyes narrowed.

"Watch your mouth. You might be a Vitello, but you're going to be my wife. You need to learn respect."

"Respect?"

The word hung in the air between us, thick and ugly.

He talked about respect while he still smelled of his mistress's cheap perfume. A cloying, sweet stench.

I let go of the suitcase handle. I turned to face him fully. And I slapped him.

The sound cracked through the room like a whip.

His head snapped to the side. He staggered back, shock on his face.

In our world, women didn't hit men. Especially soldiers.

But I wasn't just a woman. I was a Vitello.

And he had failed me.

"You took an oath," I said softly, stepping closer until he could see nothing but me. "Loyalty or death. Remember?"

He touched his cheek, eyes wide. "Elena..."

"You broke it," I said. "You broke us."

I slapped him again. Backhand this time. Harder.

My palm stung, but the pain grounded me.

He grabbed my wrist. Rage flickered in his eyes.

"Stop! You're insane!"

"I'm not insane, Luca. I'm awake. Finally."

I wrenched free. Almost dislocated my wrist.

He didn't fight to hold on. He was too scared of the marks, too scared of what my father would do if he saw bruises on me.

I grabbed the suitcase.

"My mother needs me for final preparations," I lied, my voice ice. "See you at the wedding."

He stood there. Red-faced. Breathing hard.

He wanted to believe me so badly.

He needed the Vitello alliance too much to question the slap, to question the coldness in my eyes.

"Fine," he spat. "Go. Run to your daddy. But Saturday, you're mine."

I didn't answer.

I walked out. Rode the elevator down to the lobby.

Dante leaned against the hood of his car, smoking.

He saw me. Dropped the cigarette. Crushed it under his boot.

He took the suitcase from me without a word. Threw it in the trunk.

Opened the passenger door for me.

"Did you kill him?" he asked as he slid into the driver's seat, his voice flat.

"No," I said, looking up at the apartment window where a dark figure watched us. "Not yet."

Elena Vitello POV

The Vitello estate wasn't just a house. It was a fortress.

High stone walls. Reinforced gates. Armed soldiers patrolling the perimeter.

It was the only place I could breathe.

My mother stood behind me in my childhood bedroom, running a brush through my hair. One hundred strokes. Rhythmic. Calming. The ritual we'd kept since I was small.

She was crying silently. I could see her reflection in the mirror, eyes red-rimmed.

"I'm sorry, Elena," she whispered, her voice cracking. "We thought Luca was good. We thought he'd treasure you."

"It's not your fault, Mama," I said, my eyes fixed on our reflection. "Some men are just good actors."

She set the brush down with trembling hands.

"Dante... he's different," she said, trying to convince herself as much as me. "He's hard. He has blood on his hands that will never wash clean. But he keeps his word."

"I know."

I didn't need a saint. I needed a sword.

My phone vibrated on the marble top of the vanity.

Another message from Sofia. A video this time. Spinning in front of a mirror, trying on a wedding dress.

The caption read: Ready for the wedding party.

I didn't delete it. I saved it to the hidden folder.

I picked up my phone. Opened Instagram.

I selected an archived photo. My hand resting on a bridal magazine. The key was the absence of a ring on my finger.

I typed the caption: Marrying tomorrow. Destiny calls.

I posted it. Within seconds, the likes started rolling in.

Then, predictably, a text from Luca.

"Can't wait, baby. I have a surprise for you."

I stared at the screen. Cold.

He thought this was for him.

So arrogant. So sure of his ownership that he couldn't imagine I had my own plans.

A low commotion from downstairs. My father, barking orders.

I walked to the balcony. Stepped out into the night.

Below, a convoy of black armored SUVs was lining up. Soldiers checking weapons. The metallic click of guns being loaded echoed even up here.

It looked like we were going to war instead of a wedding.

In a way, we were.

I went back inside. Lay on the bed. Stared at the ceiling.

I closed my eyes, but sleep was a distant shore.

The plan played on a loop in my head.

The Gold Ballroom.

The Silver Ballroom.

The choice.

Tomorrow, Chicago would burn.

And I would be the one holding the match.