Chapter 8

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.