Mafia Betrayal: Her Escape From Darkness

Elena Rossi POV: At six o'clock the next morning, the electronic lock on the front door clicked open. I had been awake all night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city traffic below. The moment I heard the heavy thud of the door closing, I squeezed my eyes shut, slowed my breathing to a deep, rhythmic pace, and turned onto my side. Footsteps moved across the hardwood floor, growing louder as they approached the master bedroom. The door pushed open, letting in a draft of cold hallway air. The mattress dipped under Dante’s heavy weight. The moment he leaned over me, the scent hit my nose. It wasn't his usual cold cedar. Beneath the smell of stale scotch and rain, there was an aggressive, sweet, cloying floral scent. Tom Ford's Rose Prick. Sofia’s signature perfume. My stomach violently seized. The smell was so concentrated it felt like a physical assault. My throat tightened, and a wave of pure, physiological nausea washed over me. During the fire, when Dante had been blinded by the smoke, I had navigated us out of the burning building entirely by smell, avoiding the chemical fumes. My senses were razor-sharp. I could smell her on his skin, in his hair, on the fabric of his suit. Dante leaned down, his cold lips pressing against the bare skin of my neck. His hand slid over my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. I couldn't suppress the gag reflex. I jerked forward, tearing myself out of his grip, and clamped a hand over my mouth, gasping for air. Dante froze, his arm suspended in the air. His heavy brows slammed together, a flash of dark irritation crossing his face. "Elena?" I curled into a ball, clutching my stomach, forcing my breathing to sound ragged and pained. "I'm sorry," I wheezed, keeping my face buried in the pillows. "My stomach... I've been sick all night. The cramps are terrible." The irritation in Dante's eyes instantly melted away. In its place came that familiar, arrogant, condescending pity. He loved it when I was weak. He loved it when I was fragile, because it reminded him that he was my savior. He reached out and stroked my tangled hair. The smell of the rose perfume on his wrist made my eyes water, which only made my performance more convincing. "You don't take care of yourself when I'm not here," Dante scolded gently, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. I peaked up at him through my eyelashes. "I couldn't sleep. The bed feels too empty when you're in Washington." A slow, profoundly satisfied smile spread across his handsome face. His ego fed on my supposed dependence. Dante stood up and shrugged off his suit jacket. He tossed the garment onto the floor, the heavy fabric pooling on the rug. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a sleek, heavy piece of metal. He tossed it onto the nightstand. It landed with a sharp clack. An unlimited Vitiello family black card. "Go to Fifth Avenue today," Dante ordered, loosening his tie. "Buy yourself some new clothes. Stop walking around looking like a charity case. You represent me." I stared at the black card resting on the mahogany wood. A cold, sharp thrill shot down my spine. I looked up at him, softening my eyes, playing the grateful, obedient pet. "Thank you, Dante." He grunted in acknowledgment and walked into the master bathroom. A few seconds later, the heavy rush of the rainfall showerhead echoed through the room. The second the water hit the tiles, my fragile demeanor vanished. My spine snapped straight. My eyes went dead. I threw off the covers, grabbed my phone from under the pillow, and snatched the black card off the nightstand. My hands moved with frantic precision. I snapped a high-resolution photo of the front of the card. I flipped it over and snapped a photo of the back, capturing the CVV code and the signature strip. I opened the encrypted email application I had installed on my burner partition. I attached the two photos and typed in a complex, alphanumeric address—a contact on the dark web who specialized in high-volume money laundering for syndicate families. I hit send. The progress bar filled up. *Message Sent.* I shoved the phone back under the pillow and placed the black card exactly where Dante had dropped it. I threw myself back under the covers just as the water shut off. Dante walked out of the bathroom a minute later, a towel slung low around his hips. Water dripped from his dark hair, tracing the violent, muscular lines of his chest. He walked to the foot of the bed and looked down at me. "Tomorrow night, there is a charity auction at the Waldorf. You will accompany me." My heart stalled. A public event. Dozens of cameras, hundreds of rival family members, and the absolute certainty that Isabella and Sofia would be there. It was a massive risk to my countdown. It was a variable I hadn't planned for. But I kept my face perfectly smooth. I nodded slowly. "Of course. Whatever you want." Dante walked into the closet to dress. When he emerged, wearing a fresh, charcoal suit, he paused at the bedroom door. He didn't look back at me. "And Elena," his voice dropped to a lethal, warning whisper. "Don't ever ask Marco about my schedule in Washington again." The door slammed shut behind him. I sat up slowly. I reached out and picked up the black card, my thumb tracing the raised numbers. A slow, dark smirk curved my lips. "Since you think this can buy off seven years, I'll wipe your arrogance clean."