Chapter 9

Elena Vitiello POV

The bridal suite at the Plaza Hotel was suffocating, thick with the cloying scent of lilies and the chemical bite of hairspray.

My reflection in the gilt-edged mirror stared back like a stranger.

The dress was a masterpiece of lace and deception. It hugged every curve like a second skin, the back plunging scandalously low to reveal the stark white of fresh bandages and the jagged, black M inked permanently into my flesh.

My phone buzzed against the marble vanity, an incessant, angry vibration.

Dante: Where are you? The cars are leaving the villa.

Dante: Stop sulking. Get to the church. You're making us look bad.

Dante: Elena, answer me!

I typed a single, calm reply.

Room 402. Come get me.

Ten minutes later, the door didn't just open; it burst inward.

Dante strode in, resplendent in his tuxedo, though his face was marred by irritation. He checked his watch, not even looking at me yet.

"What the hell are you doing? We have to-"

He stopped.

The words died in his throat as he finally saw me.

He saw the veil. The cascading white silk. The bouquet of midnight-black roses clutched in my hand.

He blinked rapidly, his mind stalling, unable to reconcile the reality before him.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice pitching higher. A nervous, incredulous laugh bubbled up from his chest. "Is this a joke? Did you put on the wrong dress? Take it off, Elena. You look ridiculous. You are not the bride."

I turned slowly from the mirror to face him.

"It is Matteo's wedding," I said, my voice steady as steel. "And I am the bride."

Silence.

It was absolute, sucking the air right out of the room.

"No." Dante shook his head, taking a step back. "No. That's... Matteo is marrying some nobody. Some orphan from Europe."

"He lied," I told him. "He lied to keep you compliant. To keep you distracted with a ghost while he made his move."

"You're lying!" He stepped forward, aggression radiating off him in waves. "Take the dress off. Now."

He reached for me, his fingers hooked into claws.

Two shadows detached themselves from the wall near the door.

Matteo's personal guards. Enforcers bred for violence.

They stepped between us instantly, hands hovering over the holsters beneath their jackets.

"Do not touch the Donna," one of them rumbled.

Dante froze. His eyes darted between the guards. He knew these men. They answered only to the Devil himself.

"Elena," Dante's voice cracked, fracturing under the pressure. "What did you do?"

"I made a choice," I said. "Now, do your duty. You are the brother of the groom. You will escort me to the car."

"I won't," he whispered, horror dawning in his eyes. "I won't let you do this."

"Then the guards will drag me," I replied coldly. "And Matteo will kill you for the disrespect. Is that what you want?"

Dante stared at me. His face went ashen gray.

His gaze dropped to the tattoo on my shoulder. The M. A brand of ownership.

"That wasn't for me," he realized. The devastation in his voice was delicious.

"No," I said.

"Please," he begged, his composure shattering. "Elena, don't."

"The car is waiting."

He moved like a corpse reanimated against its will. He offered me his arm.

I took it. His muscles were rigid, vibrating with a tension that threatened to snap his bones.

We walked out of the room. Down the hall. Into the elevator.

It felt less like a wedding and more like a funeral procession.

We stepped out onto the sidewalk, and the world exploded into light. The paparazzi were swarming. Flashbulbs popped like gunfire, blinding and chaotic.

Matteo was waiting by the open door of the Rolls Royce.

He looked like a dark god draped in the charcoal suit I had chosen for him.

He saw us.

He didn't spare a glance for Dante. His obsidian eyes were locked only on me.

He walked forward, his movements fluid and predatory, and took my hand from Dante's arm. He claimed me.

"Brother," Matteo said. His voice was smooth, deadly velvet. "You look unwell."

Dante was shaking visibly now. He looked like he was going to be sick right there on the red carpet.

"Matteo," Dante choked out. "She's... she's mine."

Matteo smiled. It was a terrifying thing that didn't reach his eyes.

"Not anymore," Matteo said. "Call her Donna."

Dante couldn't speak. His jaw worked uselessly.

"Say it," Matteo commanded. The order cracked like a whip across the pavement.

Dante looked at me. His eyes were wet, filled with a profound loss.

"Donna," he whispered.

He bent over suddenly and coughed. A speck of bright red blood hit the concrete. The stress was tearing him apart from the inside out.

Matteo ignored him completely. He guided me into the sanctuary of the car.

As the heavy door sealed us in, I saw Dante standing alone on the curb.

He looked small.

He looked like a man who had held a diamond in his hand, mistaken it for glass, and cast it aside.

And now, he was forced to watch the King stoop down to pick it up.