Carved From My Body, His Regret

Elena Vitiello POV: My eyes snapped open as a sharp, tearing pain ripped through my abdomen. My vision swam, slowly pulling a stained, yellowing ceiling into focus. The peeling paint and cheap fluorescent lights were a jarring contrast to the vaulted, custom-molded ceilings of my penthouse. The physical environment screamed of exile. I instinctively reached a hand down to touch my lower back. The slight twist of my torso caused the fresh stitches to pull violently. I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth, dropping my hand immediately. A fresh sheet of cold sweat instantly soaked through the thin, scratchy fabric of my hospital gown. The searing, physical agony confirmed it wasn't a nightmare. The butchery was real. I turned my head slightly, scanning the cramped space. It was a standard, bottom-tier patient room. There were no private nurses, no fresh flowers, no security detail at the door. Dante’s neglect was absolute. The sheer disrespect sharpened my mind like a whetstone. The cheap metal door handle turned. Dante walked in. He was wearing a flawless, charcoal Tom Ford suit. His tie was perfectly knotted, not a single crease on his clothes. He looked like a god walking into a slum. His immaculate appearance against my blood-drained, broken state felt like a physical slap to the face. He stopped at the foot of my bed, looking down at me. A flicker of deep impatience crossed his icy blue eyes before he forced it away. He despised sickness. He hated dealing with weakness because it kept him away from Sofia. As he stepped closer, the faint, sweet scent of vanilla hit my nose. It was baked into the expensive wool of his jacket. Sofia’s custom perfume. I had thrown away all my favorite floral scents years ago because Dante said he preferred something subtle. I changed myself for a man who smelled like another woman. Dante pulled up a cheap plastic chair and sat down, crossing his long legs. "How are you feeling?" he asked. His tone was flat, treating the question like an item on a business agenda. I forced down the bile rising in my throat. I kept my eyes completely dead, mimicking the exhaustion of a clueless patient. "What happened?" I asked, making sure my voice sounded raw and broken. The mask of the obedient Mafia wife slipped effortlessly back into place. "You had a severe appendicitis attack," Dante lied smoothly, not missing a single beat. "It ruptured. They had to operate immediately." As he spoke, his thumb habitually reached up and twisted the heavy gold wedding band on his left ring finger. It was a micro-expression I had learned over a decade. He only touched that ring when he was hiding something dirty. I stared at the gold band. I used to look at that ring like it was a holy relic. Now, it just looked like a cheap iron shackle. I gave him a weak, convincing nod. "I see." Dante’s jaw relaxed slightly. He was deeply satisfied with my total submission. He truly believed he owned my mind as completely as he owned my body. I slowly lifted my trembling right hand from the mattress, reaching out toward where his hand rested on the bedrail. I wanted to see exactly how dead his humanity was. As my pale, IV-bruised fingers neared his knuckles, Dante instinctively flinched. He pulled his hand back half an inch. He stopped himself from pulling away completely, but that microscopic retreat was all the answer I needed. He viewed me as tainted. A broken, bleeding inconvenience. My hand hovered in the empty air for a second before I let it drop heavily onto the white bedsheets. I gripped the cheap fabric tightly. I wasn't just pulling back my hand; I was permanently retracting my heart. Dante cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "The surgery was a complete success. You just need to rest here for a few days." He was already leaning toward the door. The guilt was a microscopic itch he couldn't wait to scratch by leaving. "Why didn't you take me to the penthouse medical suite?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "The equipment is better there." I intentionally pressed my thumb into the fresh wound of his lie. I knew exactly why. Sofia was currently recovering in his bed, surrounded by my things. Dante’s eyes darkened. "We are upgrading the security grid at the penthouse. It is too loud for you to rest properly." He always used Outfit business to cover up his personal sins. I didn't push it. I simply closed my eyes, letting my head roll to the side as if the conversation had drained the last of my energy. Every word I spoke was a risk. I needed to conserve my strength for the war ahead. Dante lifted his left arm, making a deliberate show of checking his million-dollar Patek Philippe watch. He wasn't even trying to hide his rush. Sofia was probably whining for him on the top floor. He stood up, smoothing down the front of his tailored jacket. "I have an emergency sit-down with the Capos. I need to go." Work. The ultimate, unarguable excuse he had used to abandon me for ten years. I opened my eyes and stared at him. I didn't beg him to stay. I didn't reach out. I just looked at him with a flat, chilling emptiness. The total lack of my usual desperate affection made Dante pause. A flicker of unease crossed his handsome face. To compensate, he leaned down over the bed, aiming his lips at my forehead to play the role of the devoted husband one last time. Just as his breath brushed my skin, I violently turned my head to the side and faked a harsh, rattling cough. The physical revulsion was too strong. I couldn't stomach his touch. Dante’s lips met empty air. He froze. His face instantly hardened into a mask of pure, offended authority. He could not tolerate rejection, not even from a bedridden woman. But his desperation to get back to his mistress outweighed his bruised ego. He straightened up abruptly. "Get some sleep," he ordered coldly, turning on his heel and striding toward the door. The heavy metal door clicked shut behind him. The room plunged back into a suffocating silence, broken only by the ragged sound of my own breathing. That door didn't just separate the hallway from the room; it separated the dead Elena from the one who survived. I gritted my teeth against the tearing pain and pushed the thin blanket down. I looked down at my body. A massive, thick square of bloody gauze was taped securely to my left lower back. An appendectomy scar was supposed to be on the lower right abdomen. The lie was so insultingly sloppy, so breathtakingly arrogant. He didn't even care enough to make the story plausible. I reached out and gently touched the edge of the medical tape. I could feel the hollow void beneath my skin. I pressed down slightly, letting the sharp spike of pain ground me in reality. I needed the pain. It was my armor against ever trusting a man again. Outside the dirty window, the wail of a Chicago police siren sliced through the rain. The brutal, unforgiving nature of the city resonated in my bones. In this world, you either died a victim, or you became a worse monster than the one who hurt you. I leaned my head back against the flat pillow. I stared at the empty room, and a slow, freezing smile stretched across my pale lips. "Appendicitis? Dante, your arrogance will get you killed."