Roses never fade

For seven years, I was his eyes. But the moment he regained his sight, he decided to marry someone else.

Seven years of devotion couldn't buy his heart.

I gave him back his dignity. Now that he was restored as the Godfather of the New York Mafia, he laughed with others, degrading me to the status of a mere "mistress."

He thought I didn't understand Italian, but I heard him loud and clear: he was going to marry his first love.

He arrogantly believed I would always love him, willing to stay in his penthouse like a caged bird.

But he was wrong. I boarded a one-way flight to Australia.

Dante, I don't want you anymore.

By the time he returned home, he would have lost me forever.

But a sore loser refuses to concede. Even if he had to burn the world to the ground, he would search for me and beg for my forgiveness.

Chapter 1

Elena Rossi's POV:

Dante's phone rang. In a brief three-minute call, my seven years of devotion were reduced to ashes.

We were sitting in the backseat of an armored Maybach.

Dante Vitiello, the boss of the New York Mafia. Before I pulled him back from the edge of the abyss, he had been consumed by blindness, whiskey, and rage.

He simply answered the phone.

"Parla," he commanded.

It was Italian for "Speak."

He put it on speaker. He thought I was just the maid's daughter, good for nothing but changing his bandages and warming his bed.

Little did he know, during the long nights of his blindness, I had taught myself his native Italian-just so I could understand the terrors haunting his nightmares.

"Dante," Marco's voice came through the line, laced with anger. "Are you out of your mind? You're marrying Sofia? After she abandoned you?"

My posture stiffened.

Dante sighed.

"It's a strategic move, Marco," Dante replied in Italian. "The Moretti family's territory is crucial. Sofia is the key. I need her father's soldiers."

It was hard to tell if he meant it. Sofia was his first love, I knew that. But when Dante went blind, Sofia left him.

"What about the girl?" Marco asked. "Elena?"

Dante looked at me.

His eyes, restored to their icy blue clarity, swept over my face.

He squeezed my hand.

"Elena is... comfortable," Dante said in Italian. "She brings me solace. But Sofia is a wife."

"Elena doesn't need to know the details. She's happy in the penthouse. I'll keep her there. I'll keep her happy. If necessary, I can even give her a wedding without legal bindings."

All I felt was a freezing chill.

I wasn't his partner, nor was I his savior.

I was a pet.

My heart didn't break; it simply stopped beating, sinking into ice-cold water.

I turned my head to look out the window, hiding the tears threatening to fall.

"She's just a servant's daughter, Marco," Dante added. "She won't question the Godfather."

He hung up.

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my palm.

"Business," he said in English, his voice smooth and charming. "Just some boring logistics."

I smiled.

It felt like the skin on my face was going to crack.

"Of course, Dante."

His phone buzzed again. A text message.

He glanced at it, and I saw the name "Sofia" flash across the screen.

He clenched his jaw.

He knocked on the partition. "Pull over."

The driver immediately pulled the car onto the wet, gravel shoulder of the highway.

"Elena," Dante said, turning to me. "I have to handle an urgent matter. It's not safe for you to come along."

It was raining.

We were still ten miles away from the penthouse.

"Here?" I asked softly.

"The driver will come back for you in an hour," he said, opening his door. A gust of cold wind hit me, stinging my skin. "Wait in that guard booth by the road. I need the car."

He wasn't protecting me.

He was going to see her.

He didn't want the maid's daughter getting in the way. I knew that.

I stepped out.

My heels sank into the mud.

The heavy door slammed shut, and the Maybach sped off, leaving me standing alone in the freezing rain.

I watched the taillights fade away until they were swallowed by the darkness.

Seven years.

I fed him when he couldn't even find his own mouth.

I read to him when he lived in perpetual night.

I had worshipped a broken god. Now that he was reborn, he deemed me unworthy of his divinity.

I didn't walk to the guard booth.

I stood there, letting the rain soak through my silk blouse, washing away the scent of his cologne lingering on my skin.

I couldn't tell if the wetness running down my face was rain or tears.

I pulled my phone out of my bag. My hands were shaking, but my mind was startlingly clear.

I dialed a number I had never dared to use before.

"Vitiello Residence," a frigid voice answered.

"Put Donna Isabella on the line," I said, staring down the empty road.

Donna Isabella. Dante's mother, the matriarch of the Mafia.

"Tell her the maid's daughter is ready to negotiate a severance package," I said. "I am willing to leave Dante. Forever."

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.

Elena Rossi's POV:

The charity auction was less of a gala and more of a battlefield for high society.

I wasn't supposed to be here.

Dante had explicitly told me to stay home.

But Marco, kind-hearted but clueless, had sent a driver for me, assuming Dante had simply forgotten to pass along the invite. I couldn't refuse without raising questions I wasn't ready to answer.

So, I stood on the periphery, half-hidden in the shadow of a marble pillar, watching.

Dante stood in the center of the room. He didn't just occupy the space; he commanded it.

He looked like a king. Lethal. Handsome. Untouchable.

And Sofia was right beside him.

She laughed, letting her hand linger on his bicep, her lips brushing his ear to whisper secrets I would never hear.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew heavy.

Three men from the Russo family approached them. They were drunk, their voices too loud, completely out of place against the polite murmurs of the room.

One of them grabbed Sofia's arm, his grip visibly rough.

"Look at the little princess," the man sneered, slurring his words. "Daddy's broke, so she crawls back to the big bad wolf?"

Sofia let out a shriek that cut through the noise like breaking glass.

Dante moved faster than conscious thought.

He seized the man's wrist and twisted violently. The sickening crack of bone echoed through the hall.

Total chaos erupted.

Security swarmed the area.

This could very well start a war.

Dante, having just regained his sight, was in no position to wage a war. It would push him and his family straight off a cliff.

Dante shoved the man away, his face contorted in undisguised fury.

"Back off!" Dante roared.

He swung his arm backward, clearing a perimeter to form a protective circle around Sofia.

He didn't see me.

He didn't know I had taken a step forward, instinctively reaching out to pull him back from the brink.

His thick forearm slammed into my chest like a battering ram.

I flew backward.

My head hit the sharp edge of the marble pillar.

A blinding flash of white light exploded across my vision.

I crumpled to the floor, my sight swimming.

A warm stream trickled down my neck. Thick blood.

"Dante..." I gasped, the air knocked from my lungs.

But he wasn't looking at me.

He was on his knees, entirely focused on Sofia, gently holding her ankle.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her, his voice frantic. "Did they touch you?"

"My ankle," Sofia sobbed, clutching his collar. "I think I sprained it. Oh, God, Dante, get me out of here."

Without a second's hesitation, he scooped her up in his arms.

He walked right past me.

His Italian leather shoe stepped right into the fresh drops of blood I had left on the polished floor.

He didn't look down.

He carried her out of the hall as if she were made of porcelain, leaving me bleeding on the cold stone, utterly ignored.

I stitched the wound myself in the penthouse bathroom.

Four stitches.

I didn't use an anesthetic. The sharp pain of the needle piercing my skin momentarily distracted me from the massive, gaping wound in my chest.

I sat on the bathroom tiles all night, staring at the door, waiting for the knob to turn.

It didn't.

The next morning, my phone rang.

"Velvet Lounge, VIP Room 703, now." Dante's voice was frigid and devoid of life.

He hung up before I could utter a single word.

I pulled on a turtleneck sweater to hide the bandages and hailed a cab, my head still throbbing violently with every heartbeat.

When I walked into the private room, the air was thick with the smell of cigars.

Dante sat on a leather sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Sofia sat next to him, one foot propped up on a velvet pillow, dramatically wrapped in an ace bandage.

She looked flawless. Impeccable, like a pure, blameless victim.

Dante looked at me with an expression I didn't recognize at all. His eyes were dead, showing no sign that he even knew who I was.

"Explain," he demanded.

"Explain what?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady despite my trembling hands.

"Those men at the auction," Dante said low, his tone dark and dangerous. "They were Russians."

And?

"Sofia says you know them," Dante said. "She says she saw you signal them right before they approached her."

I looked at Sofia in sheer shock.

She gave me a sad, pitying smile. Masterful acting. "Elena, I know you're jealous. But hiring men to scare me? That's too dangerous. You almost got Dante hurt."

My jaw practically hit the floor.

"You think I hired the Russos?" I looked back at Dante, fighting to keep my sanity, and asked. "Dante, I was standing in the corner. You hit me. You knocked me out."

"Don't lie to me!" Dante slammed his hand on the table, rattling the crystal glasses.

I flinched.

"I watched the security footage, Elena," he roared. "You were right there. Watching. Waiting."

"I was waiting for you," I whispered, even though I knew how pathetic it sounded.

"You're lucky, Elena," Dante spat, the verdict hanging in the air like a guillotine blade. "Because of what you've done for me in the past... I will spare your life."

Mercy.

He pointed at Sofia.

"Apologize," he commanded, leaving no room for argument. "Get on your knees and apologize to her."