Chapter 4

Alessia POV:

Dante strode into my infirmary room carrying a basket of fruit and flowers, what passed for a "get-well" gesture in his world. I was on my phone, texting Luca's contact to confirm the final details of my transport.

Falcone territory. Ten days. All set.

Dante's shadow fell over me. "Where do you think you're going?" he demanded, his voice low and laced with the suspicion of a man who'd missed nothing.

I slowly looked up from my phone, schooling my features into a mask of indifference. "That is no longer within your purview, my Don," I said, my tone formal and cold.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He hated this. He hated that I wasn't fighting, screaming, begging. He dropped the basket on the bedside table with a sharp thud. "Physical therapy," he grunted. "I'll take you."

He pushed my wheelchair through the halls, the silence between us thick and suffocating. He was expecting me to break, to say something, but I remained silent, playing the part of a compliant doll in his possession.

We rounded a corner into the main hall, and then he saw her.

Isabella was standing near the entrance, wringing her hands and looking artfully distressed. Dante released my wheelchair without a second thought, rushing to her side. "What is it? Are you hurt?"

I watched as the wheelchair-which he had left at the top of a subtle ramp leading down to the main floor-began to roll, picking up speed. It was heading directly for a large, decorative stone fountain. A collision would be agonizing for my shattered leg. I had no choice.

I threw myself from the chair, landing hard on the rough stone floor. A fresh wave of searing pain shot up my leg as fresh blood bloomed through the bandages.

Isabella looked down at me, a flicker of triumph in her eyes before she masked it with false sympathy. "Oh, Dante, you should carry her," she suggested sweetly.

Dante didn't even glance at me. "My arms are reserved for my woman," he stated, his voice flat. He turned his back on me, leading Isabella away and leaving me struggling on the cold floor.

As they passed, Isabella leaned down, her voice a triumphant whisper only I could hear. "He chose me. Now tell me, did you overhear our plan?"

I didn't answer. I just stared at her, letting my silence be its own reply. Frustration flashed across her face before she straightened up and took a deliberate step back, her heel catching on nothing at all. With a theatrical gasp and a wild flail of her arms, she tumbled backward into the icy water of the hydrotherapy pool nearby.

"She pushed me!" Isabella shrieked, sputtering.

Rage, pure and black, contorted Dante's face. He hauled a dripping Isabella from the pool, his eyes burning with a terrifying fire. Then he turned on me.

He grabbed me by the hair, dragging me to the edge of the pool. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage of bone.

"You want to play in the water?" he snarled.

He shoved my head under the freezing surface, the shock of the cold stealing the air from my lungs. Panic clawed at my throat as he held me down, his hand a vice on the back of my neck. He loomed over me, his face a mask of cold fury.

"Touch her again," he growled, his voice a Don's command that vibrated through the water, through my very soul. "And I'll strip you of your name. You'll be a ghost. No family, no protection. You'll belong to no one."

My eyes were wide with terror and disbelief, the world a distorted, watery blur. Then, he pushed me deeper, and I sank, the last of my air escaping in a frantic stream of bubbles.