Elena Rossi POV

The elevator ride to the penthouse felt like being sealed in a vertical coffin.

When the doors slid open, I hesitated, convinced I had stepped off on the wrong floor.

The warmth had been surgically removed.

The beige walls, the plush rugs, the paintings I had meticulously chosen to make this stone fortress mimic a home—all of it had been erased.

The walls were stripped down to skeletal concrete.

The furniture was shrouded in plastic sheets, like bodies in a morgue.

Construction crews were hauling out debris in heavy canvas sacks.

And there, in the center of the living room, sitting in black trash bags like common refuse, were my things.

Dante stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, silhouetted against the city, nursing a cigarette.

He hated smoking indoors.

It was one of his cardinal rules.

But rules, apparently, were shackles designed only for me.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice echoing in the hollowed-out space.

He turned slowly.

"Renovations," he said, his voice flat. "Sofia prefers minimalism. Industrial chic."

"My books," I said, pointing to a bag that had split open, spilling my medical textbooks onto the dusty concrete.

I looked at the fabric peeking out of another bag. "My mother's quilts."

"They were in the way," he said, flicking ash onto the floor with deliberate indifference. "The crew needs the space clear by Monday."

He walked over to the kitchen island, the only structure left untouched in the demolition.

He picked up a small velvet box and slid it across the marble toward me.

It stopped inches from my hand.

"A severance package," he said.

I stared at the box.

I didn't open it.

I knew it would be diamonds.

Cold, hard carbon meant to purchase three years of my soul.

"Is she moving in?" I asked, the words tasting like ash.

"Eventually. The engagement will be announced next month."

He took a long drag of the cigarette, his eyes narrowing through the plume of smoke.

"You have until the end of the week to find a new place. I've arranged an apartment for you in Santa Monica. The lease is paid for a year."

He was evicting me.

Like a tenant who had fallen behind on rent.

"I don't want the apartment," I said.

"Take it, Elena. Don't be difficult."

"I'm not being difficult," I whispered, the fight draining out of me. "I'm being done."

I walked past him to the trash bags.

I didn't take the designer gowns.

I didn't take the emeralds.

I grabbed the bag heavy with my books and the one holding the quilt.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice sharpening.

"Out."

"You don't have anywhere to go."

"I'll figure it out."

I dragged the bags to the elevator.

He didn't stop me.

He watched me with a mix of annoyance and something else—maybe confusion.

He wasn't used to his property walking away on its own two legs.

I checked into a motel near the university that charged by the hour.

The room smelled of stale smoke and desperation, but for tonight, it was mine.

The next morning, I went to the Dean’s office to finalize my transfer paperwork.

"Are you sure, Ms. Rossi?" the Dean asked, peering over his spectacles. "We were prepared to offer you a tenure-track position here. Caltech doesn't like losing its brightest."

"I'm sure," I said, signing the final line. "I need... a change of scenery."

As I walked out, clutching my file, I collided with a chest as unyielding as a brick wall.

"Whoa, steady there," a deep voice rumbled.

I looked up.

Julian Cavalli.

The golden boy of the surgery department.

Top of the class, son of a Senator, and the only man in this city who had ever looked at me without undressing me with his eyes.

"Elena?" He frowned, leaning down to inspect my red-rimmed eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Julian. Just... allergies."

He didn't buy it.

He shifted his gym bag, his gaze intense but kind. "If you need anything... coffee, a scalpel to stab someone with... I'm around."

I managed a weak, fractured smile. "I might take you up on the scalpel."

"I'm serious," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I saw the news about the Vitiello engagement. I know you... knew him."

He was being polite.

Everyone knew I was the *Comare*. The mistress.

"I didn't know him," I said softly. "I just owed him."

My phone rang.

The screen flashed *Owner*.

I hadn't changed the contact name yet.

I ignored it.

It rang again.

And again.

Finally, I answered, my grip on the phone white-knuckled. "What?"

"Come get me," Dante’s voice slurred.

He was drunk.

He never got drunk.

"Call your driver."

"I fired him. Come get me. The Penthouse."

"I don't live there anymore, remember?"

"Elena," he growled, the sound vibrating with a terrifying mix of menace and need. "Come. Now."

I hung up.

I looked at Julian, who was watching me with concern.

"Do you need a ride?" Julian asked.

"No," I said, a bitter taste flooding my mouth. "I have one last debt to pay."

I took a cab to the penthouse.

The door was unlocked.

Dante was sitting on the floor amidst the construction debris, a half-empty bottle of scotch loosely gripped in his hand.

He looked wrecked.

His tie was gone, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his torso.

When he saw me, he tried to stand but stumbled.

I caught him.

He was heavy, a dead weight of muscle and sinew.

I dragged him to the only piece of furniture left—the leather sofa in the den.

"Sofia," he muttered, his eyes squeezed shut against the light.

"She's not ready."

I froze.

My hands hovered over his chest, midway through unbuttoning his shirt so he wouldn't suffocate.

"What?"

He opened his eyes.

They were glassy, unfocused.

He looked directly at me, but he saw her.

"She said she's not ready," he whispered, a cruel, drunken smirk twisting his lips. "So I have to wait. I have to... practice."

He reached up and grabbed the back of my neck, pulling me down.

It wasn't a kiss.

It was a collision.

He kissed me with a hunger that was terrifying, desperate, and completely devoid of affection.

"Practice," he murmured against my lips.

I shoved him off.

I scrambled back, my chest heaving, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

I wasn't a person to him.

I was a training dummy.

I was the warm body he used to perfect his technique for the woman he actually respected.

I stood up, trembling.

"Practice is over, Dante," I said to the unconscious man.

I walked to the window and looked out at the city lights.

They blurred through my tears into streaks of gold and red.

I sat there all night, watching over him one last time.

Not because I loved him.

But because I needed to watch the sun rise on a world where I no longer belonged to him.

Elena Rossi POV

"Practice is over, Dante."

I whispered the words to the empty air, but they tasted like ash on my tongue.

Dante was asleep on the leather sofa, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the city lights bleeding in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. His phone sat on the coffee table, vibrating with a persistence that demanded attention.

I shouldn't have looked. I knew the rules. *Omertà*. Privacy. Know your place.

But the screen lit up, and the message was right there, a glowing white scar cutting through the darkness.

*Sofia: I’m not ready, Dante. It’s been too long.*

My eyes drifted up to the previous message, the one he had sent minutes before he dragged me down onto the cushions. Minutes before he kissed me with that desperate, terrifying hunger.

*Dante: I’ll wait. I’ll practice.*

The air was punched from my lungs.

I wasn't a person to him. I wasn't even a mistress. I was a sparring partner. A warm body he used to rehearse his passion so he wouldn't fumble when he finally touched the woman who actually mattered.

He was perfecting his technique on me so he could be perfect for her.

I sat there in the silence until the sun began to bleed through the smog of Los Angeles. When Dante finally stirred, groaning as the hangover hit him, I was already standing by the door with my bag.

He sat up, rubbing his temples. He looked at me, his eyes bloodshot and devoid of the vulnerability he had shown last night. The Capo was back.

"You're still here," he rasped, his voice rough with sleep.

"I was just leaving."

He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a checkbook. The sound of the pen scratching against the paper was deafening in the silent room. He tore the check out and held it toward me.

Three million dollars.

"A bonus," he said, his voice flat, businesslike. "For the last three years. And for last night."

I stared at the piece of paper. It was enough to buy a house. Enough to buy a new life. But right now, it looked like payment for services rendered.

"I don't want it," I said.

He frowned, his hand still extended. "Don't be stupid, Elena. Take the money. You have nothing."

"I have my name," I said, my voice steady. "And I'm taking it back."

I didn't take the check. Eventually, his hand dropped, and the paper fluttered to the floor, landing face down on the dusty concrete.

"Clean up any trace of yourself before you go," he said, already turning his back to me to hunt for his cigarettes. "Sofia is coming by later to look at the space. I don't want her to find a stray hair tie and get upset."

He didn't look at me as he said it. He was already lighting up, the flame flaring, his mind already moving on to the next item on his agenda.

I walked to the kitchen. I took the mug I used for coffee every morning and dropped it into the trash. The ceramic shattered. I went to the bathroom and retrieved my toothbrush.

I walked back to the living room.

"Goodbye, Dante," I said.

He waved a hand dismissively, smoke curling around his head like a halo of vice. "Yeah. Close the door."

I walked out. The heavy steel door clicked shut behind me.

It was the sound of a prison cell finally opening.

Elena Rossi POV

Graduation day was a suffocating sea of black robes and brittle, forced smiles.

I sat in the third row, my hands clenched tight in my lap. The seat next to me was glaringly empty.

I hadn't invited my parents; the flight was too expensive, and I didn't want them to see that the "boyfriend" they adored wasn't there.

Dante wasn't there.

He was trending on Twitter, though.

A photo from Paris. Dante and Sofia standing on a balcony, the Eiffel Tower looming in the background. The caption read: *The Vitiello King and his Queen take Europe.*

He had missed my graduation to buy her macaroons.

"Is this seat taken?"

I looked up. Julian Cavalli was standing there, his gown unzipped, a reckless, lopsided grin on his face. He looked like golden defiance in a room full of shadows.

"Technically, no," I said. "But it's reserved for a ghost."

Julian sat down anyway, sprawling into the space. "I don't believe in ghosts. I believe in surgeons."

When my name was called—*Elena Rossi, Summa Cum Laude*—Julian cheered louder than anyone.

He whistled. He clapped until his hands must have stung.

For a few seconds, I wasn't the discarded mistress. I was a scholar. I was brilliant.

After the ceremony, the crowd thinned out. Families were taking photos, hugging, crying. I stood by a pillar, an observer in my own life.

A black SUV pulled up to the curb. My heart did a violent, traitorous flip.

Dante stepped out. He was still in the same suit from the airport photos. He must have flown straight back. He looked shattered, his eyes bruised by dark circles of fatigue.

He walked over to me. He didn't have flowers. He didn't have a card.

He had his phone in his hand.

"I have a flight to New York in two hours," he said. No hello. No congratulations. "My driver is sick. Drive me."

It was absurd. It was cruel.

"I just graduated, Dante."

"And now you have a job to do," he said, his voice flat. "Get in the car."

I looked at Julian, who was watching us from a distance, his brow furrowed in concern. I shook my head at him. *It's okay. One last time.*

I got in the driver's seat. Dante got in the back.

The drive to LAX was suffocatingly silent. He spent the entire time typing on his encrypted phone, making deals that would probably get people killed.

When we reached the private terminal, I put the car in park.

"Wait here for the valet," he said, opening the door.

He stepped out. He didn't look back.

"Dante," I said.

He paused, one foot on the tarmac. He looked over his shoulder, impatient.

"What?"

"Some debts can't be paid with cash," I said.

He frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"

I got out of the car. I walked around to him. I took his hand. His skin was warm, rough. Lethal.

I squeezed it once. A final pulse of contact.

"Safe travels," I whispered.

He pulled his hand away, adjusting his cuff. "I'll be back on Tuesday. Have dinner ready."

He turned and walked toward the jet.

I watched him go. He ascended the stairs, disappearing into the metal belly of the beast.

He thought I would be there on Tuesday. He thought I would be there forever.

I got back into the car, drove it to the valet, and handed over the keys. Then I walked to the international terminal.

I took the SIM card out of my phone and snapped it in half.

I dropped the pieces into a trash can, listening to the faint rattle as they hit the bottom.

I boarded the plane to Zurich. I didn't look out the window as we took off. I didn't want to see the city that had almost swallowed me whole.