Chapter 9

Elena Rossi POV:

I moved with frantic, silent efficiency.

I wasn't packing clothes. Just the essentials.

My birth certificate. The bank transfer codes Donna Isabella had provided. My passport.

I slipped them into the hidden lining of my purse.

Suddenly, the electronic lock on the front door chimed.

Dante.

He wasn't supposed to be back until morning.

Panic flared in my chest. I threw a blanket over the suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed just as the handle turned.

He walked in.

He smelled like rain and the cloying sweetness of her perfume.

He looked shattered.

He loosened his tie, tossing his jacket on the chair with a heavy sigh.

"Packing?" he asked, his eyes flicking to the lump under the blanket.

"Cleaning," I lied, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Organizing for the charity drive."

He watched me.

The air in the room shifted. He sensed something. He always did. His instincts were sharp, honed like a blade. He was a predator.

He walked over and stood between my knees.

He reached out, his thumb grazing the bandage on my cheek.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"I heard you were at the Estate," he murmured.

"I went to get my old books."

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair.

"About Sofia..." he started.

"Don't," I cut him off softly.

I stood up, needing to put distance between us.

I walked to the dresser and picked up the Black Card he had left there weeks ago.

"Is this still valid?" I asked, holding it up.

He frowned. "Yes. Why?"

"I want to buy a dress," I said, meeting his gaze. "For the gala next week. If you'll still let me go."

His eyes softened, flooded with relief.

He thought I was bargaining. He thought I was accepting my position as the mistress who gets paid off in couture.

"Of course," he said, his voice rough. "Buy whatever you want. Wear red."

He leaned down and kissed my forehead.

I didn't pull away.

I stood as still as a statue, letting him believe I was his.

"Go to sleep, Dante," I whispered. "You look exhausted."

He nodded.

He stripped down to his boxers and climbed into the massive bed.

He fell asleep instantly, the exhaustion finally claiming him.

I stood in the dark, watching him.

I memorized the rise and fall of his chest. The scar on his shoulder from the bullet meant for his father.

I reached out.

I brushed my fingers against his cheek one last time.

"Goodbye, my love," I breathed into the silence.

He stirred.

He turned his head into my hand, seeking warmth.

"Sofia..." he mumbled in his sleep, the name a dagger to my heart. "Stay..."

I snatched my hand back as if I had touched fire.

A bitter smile twisted my lips.

That was the closure I needed.

I grabbed my purse.

I walked out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the elevator.

I took the service exit to the street.

I popped the SIM card out of my phone and flicked it into a sewer grate on 5th Avenue.

I hailed a cab.

"JFK International," I told the driver.

I watched the city blur past the window.

New York was a cage of steel and glass.

And for the first time in seven years, the door was open.

I dialed Donna Isabella from a burner phone I had purchased at a bodega.

"It's done," I said the moment she answered. "I'm gone."

"Good girl," she replied, her voice cool and approving. "Don't look back."

I hung up and snapped the phone in half.

I wasn't looking back.

I was looking at the departure board.

Melbourne. One way.