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.

Elena Vitello POV

The limousine was silent. My father sat across from me, his face carved from stone.

He wore an impeccable suit, but the cut couldn't hide the bulge of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

"Are you sure, Elena?" he asked for the tenth time. "Once this is done, there's no going back. The Morettis will be shamed. It could start a war."

"Let them try," I said, smoothing the skirt of my dress.

It wasn't the gown Luca had ordered. This was something else. Elegant. High-necked. Long-sleeved. Made of lace imported from France.

It was a dress for a woman. Not a girl.

We pulled up to the hotel. A crowd had gathered.

Photographers. Guests. Onlookers.

The door opened. I stepped out. Flashbulbs exploded, a million tiny lightning strikes that blinded me for a moment.

Then I heard it. A voice.

"Elena! You're early!"

Luca was running down the stone steps.

I had to admit, he looked handsome in his tuxedo.

But it was a hollow handsomeness. An empty shell.

He stopped short. His eyes landed on my dress. Confusion flickered across his handsome features.

"That's not... where's the dress I bought you?" he frowned.

Before I could answer, a taxi screeched to a halt at the curb. A white figure launched herself out.

Sofia. Wearing the dress. My dress.

The one with her name on the hem.

She threw herself at Luca, sobbing. "Luca! You can't do this! You can't marry her! Look! Look at the dress! You bought it for me! It has my name on it!"

She lifted the hem, shoving the embroidery in his face.

"See? Sofia! You love me!"

The crowd went silent.

Cameras clicked frantically, a mechanical roar eating up every second of the scandal.

Luca's face went white. He stared at the name stitched in silver thread. Comprehension dawned. Too late.

"Sofia, what the hell are you doing here? Get out!"

She clutched his lapels. "But our baby! You said you loved me! You said she was just a business deal!"

"You put my name on the dress!"

I stood there. A still island in the storm.

My father moved to my side, his hand firm on my arm.

Luca looked at me. Panic flickered in his eyes. He looked from the damning embroidery to my face, trying to piece it together. But his arrogance blinded him.

"Elena, this... she's crazy... I don't know..."

I looked at him. Then at Sofia, crumpling to the ground, the white tulle of my stolen dress pooling around her like a shroud.

"I'm not here for you, soldier," I said, loud enough for the reporters to hear.

Luca blinked.

"What?"

Sofia scrambled up. "If I can't have you, no one can!" she shrieked.

She turned and ran. Straight for the massive stone pillar at the hotel entrance.

It was too theatrical. Too pathetic.

She hit the pillar with her shoulder, not her head. She crumpled, screaming, "My baby! My baby!"

Luca looked at me. Then at Sofia.

He made his choice.

He ran to her.