Chapter 8

Elena Rossi's POV:

I didn't pack clothes; I only packed the essentials.

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

I stuffed them into the hidden lining of my purse.

Suddenly, the electronic lock on the front door beeped.

Dante.

He wasn't supposed to be back until morning.

Panic flared instantly. I hastily 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 exhausted.

He loosened his tie, let out a heavy sigh, and tossed his jacket over a chair.

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

"I'm cleaning," I lied, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Getting ready for the charity clothing drive."

He looked at me.

The air in the room seemed to shift.

He sensed something. He always did; his intuition was sharp.

He walked over and stood between my knees.

He reached out, his thumb gently brushing over the bandage on my cheek.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair.

"About Sofia..." he began.

"Don't," I interrupted softly.

I stood up, needing to put distance between us.

I walked over to the dresser and picked up the black card he had left there weeks ago.

"Is this still active?" 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."

I lied.

I didn't want a dress, and I didn't want his black card.

Next week, I wouldn't be at the gala; I would be in Australia.

His eyes softened, filling with a profound sense of relief.

He thought I had accepted my role as a mistress, willing to be bought off with haute couture.

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

He leaned down and kissed my forehead.

I didn't pull away.

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

"Get some sleep, Dante," I said softly. "You look tired."

He nodded.

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

He fell asleep almost instantly, exhaustion finally taking over.

I stood in the dark, watching him.

I memorized the rise and fall of his chest.

I gently traced the line of his cheek with my fingers one last time.

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

He shifted.

He buried his face in my palm, seeking warmth.

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

I yanked my hand back as if I had been burned.

A bitter smile touched 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 exited onto the street through the service door.

I pulled the SIM card out of my phone and dropped it down a storm drain on Fifth Avenue.

I hailed a cab.

"JFK Airport," I told the driver.

I watched the city blur past the window.

New York had been a cage of steel and glass.

For the first time in seven years, the door was wide open.

I used a burner phone I had bought at a bodega to call Donna Isabella.

"It's done," I said the moment she picked up. "I'm leaving."

"Good girl," she replied, her tone cold but approving. "Don't look back."

I hung up and snapped the phone in half.

I didn't look back.

I looked at the flight information board.

Melbourne. One-way.