Chapter 3

Elena Vitiello POV

The penthouse had devolved into a gilded cage, and Sofia Moretti held the keys.

For two days, she had treated the estate like her personal fiefdom. She barked orders at the staff, sneered at the menu, and left her jewelry scattered across every marble surface, marking her territory with the arrogance of a predator.

I, conversely, had become invisible. I wore plain clothes, kept my head down, and moved through the hallways like a spectre in my own home. But spectres have ears.

I was dusting the bookshelf in the corridor-a menial task Sofia had suggested I do to "earn my keep"-when I heard voices drifting from the lounge.

"He's going to divorce her anyway," a female voice sneered. It was Tiffany, Sofia's shadow, a girl who was busy climbing the social ladder on her knees.

"Of course he is," Sofia's voice floated out, lazy and saturated with satisfaction. "Once the heat from the trial dies down. Daddy said Dante needs a union with a Made family to secure his position as Underboss. Elena is just a nurse's daughter. She's a placeholder."

I froze. A placeholder.

That's all I was. All the "I love yous," all the nights he held me while I wept-it was just maintenance. He was merely keeping the engine idling until he could trade up for a newer, more powerful model.

Numbness replaced the shock. I walked into the lounge. Sofia was painting her nails on the coffee table, while Tiffany scrolled idly on her phone.

"You missed a spot," Sofia said, pointing a wet fingernail toward the floor without looking up.

I kept walking. I needed to get to the kitchen. I needed air.

Suddenly, a manicured leg shot out.

It was petty. It was childish. And it was effective.

I tripped, my hands flying out blindly to catch myself. I collided with a side table, and a heavy bronze statue tipped, crashing to the floor with a deafening, metallic thud.

"Oh my God!" Sofia shrieked, leaping up. "She attacked me! She tried to throw it at me!"

The double doors burst open.

Dante stormed in, his security detail flanking him like shadows. His eyes swept the scene: me on the floor, the statue near Sofia's feet, and Sofia clutching her chest, summoning fake tears with impressive speed.

"She's crazy, Dante!" Sofia screamed. "She came at me!"

Dante looked at me. He didn't ask for my side. He didn't look for the truth. He saw a liability and an asset, and he made his choice instantly.

He grabbed me by the arm, hauling me up. His grip was iron.

"I warned you," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "I told you to behave."

"She tripped me," I gasped, the injustice burning my throat. "Dante, look at her face. She's lying."

"Enough!"

He shoved me back. I stumbled, my shoulder slamming against the wall. The impact shook a picture frame loose-a photo of my mother. It hit the floor, the glass spiderwebbing over her face.

Dante looked at the photo, then at me. A cold, cruel resolve hardened his features. He picked up the frame.

"Your mother is dead, Elena! Stop using her ghost to excuse your incompetence!"

With a violent swing, he smashed the frame against the corner of the marble table.

The sound of the glass shattering was the sound of my heart finally turning to stone.

"Get her out of my sight," Dante ordered his guards, his voice devoid of emotion. "Take her to the Panic Room."

"No," I whispered, the fight draining out of me. "Dante, please. It's dark in there."

"Maybe the dark will help you see clearly," he said, turning his back on me to comfort Sofia.

The guards dragged me downstairs. The Panic Room was a steel vault in the basement. Soundproof. Windowless. Freezing.

They threw me in and slammed the heavy steel door. The lock engaged with a mechanical thud that vibrated through the concrete floor.

Total, suffocating darkness.

I sat in the corner, pulling my knees to my chest. The silence was physical; it pressed against my eardrums like water. Time dissolved. Was it an hour? A day? I replayed the moment he smashed my mother's photo on an agonizing loop.

He didn't just choose the Mafia over me. He chose cruelty. He relished the power.

Eventually, the door hissed open.

Light flooded in, blinding me. Dante stood there, silhouetted against the hallway glow. He looked impeccable, untouched by the misery he had inflicted.

"Get up," he said.

I tried to stand, but my legs were stiff from the cold. I swayed. He made no move to steady me.

"Sofia's family is hosting a memorial service for the 'tragic incident' at the gala," he stated flatly. "A PR stunt to clear her name completely."

"You want me to go?" I croaked. My throat felt like sandpaper.

"I want you to apologize," he said. "Sofia feels unsafe in this house. To prove your contrition, you will replant the garden beds in the courtyard. The ones she... accidentally stepped on."

Accidentally. She had trampled my mother's hydrangeas on purpose.

"And then," Dante continued, checking his watch, "you will come to the memorial and smile. You will show the world that we are a united front."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I close this door," he said softly, his hand resting on the steel lever. "And I lose the key."

I looked at him. I searched for the man I had married, but all I saw was a stranger in a suit.

"I'll do it," I said.

Because I needed to be out of this room.

I needed to be at that memorial.

That was where I would run.