Chapter 2

Elena Rossi's POV:

Donna Isabella didn't pour me tea.

She sat across from me in a private room of a café, where an hour's rental cost more than my mother made in a year.

She slid a black folder across the marble tabletop with her manicured fingers.

"I always knew you were a smart girl, Elena," she said.

I didn't touch the folder yet.

"I want out," I said evenly. "Completely out. No tracking. No loose ends. If Dante comes looking for me, he'll only find a ghost."

Isabella smiled.

"Dante won't come looking for you," she said dismissively. "He's obsessed with you, true. But he's a Vitiello. He understands duty. He's marrying Sofia Moretti in three months. You're just a loose end."

"Then cut it," I said.

I opened the folder.

The number was staggering. Fifty million dollars.

Enough to buy a brand-new life.

But there were conditions.

The recipient must leave the United States within 14 days.

The recipient must never contact Dante Vitiello again.

Breach of contract will result in immediate termination.

In the Vitiello family, "termination" didn't mean a lawsuit. It meant a bullet.

I picked up the pen and signed my name. Elena Rossi.

"Smart choice," Isabella said, snatching the folder back before the ink was even dry. "The funds will be deposited into an offshore account by tomorrow morning. Australia has lovely weather this time of year. And no extradition treaties for us to worry about."

"Two weeks," I said.

"Two weeks," she confirmed. "Don't linger, child. The Don hates long goodbyes."

The ride back to the penthouse we shared was a blur.

The doorman smiled at me as I walked into the lobby. "Good afternoon, Miss Rossi."

He didn't know I had already become a ghost.

I took the elevator to the apartment that occupied the entire top floor.

It was filled with things Dante had given me. Jewelry I never wore. Dresses worth a fortune.

A gilded cage made of diamonds and silk. I finally saw the penthouse for what it truly was.

I sat on the edge of the bed where we had made love just this morning.

My phone pinged.

An Instagram notification.

I usually avoided social media, but curiosity is a poison.

I opened it.

Sofia Moretti had posted a photo ten minutes ago.

It was a close-up of a document on a desk. A marriage contract.

Her hand was resting on Dante's forearm.

It was Dante. I instantly recognized the watch on his wrist. It was my birthday gift to him.

The caption read: Fate always brings back what's yours. #VitielloMoretti #Forever.

I stared at the screen until my eyes burned.

Fate didn't bring him back.

I pulled him out of the darkness. I healed him.

Seven years. How many seven years does a person get in a lifetime?

And yet, she was reaping the rewards.

My phone vibrated again. A text from Dante.

Dante: Have to stay overnight in D.C. Business came up. Don't wait up. Love you.

He wasn't in D.C.

He was with her.

Probably celebrating the signing of their marriage contract.

I replied.

Me: Okay. Stay safe.

I pressed send.

Then I double-tapped Sofia's photo.

Like.

I put my phone down and walked into the walk-in closet.

I didn't take any clothes. I didn't take any jewelry.

I dragged a small, battered suitcase from beneath the racks of designer clothes.

I started packing the things that mattered.

My mother's rosary. The books I used to read to him when he was blind. A dried flower picked from the garden.

I was going to leave.

But first, I had to survive the next two weeks without screaming.