Reborn: The Mafia Heiress They Abandoned

Elena POV: They say Rome was not built in a day, but I rebuilt myself in six months. The European Syndicate was different from the Outfit. It was colder. More ruthless. Infinitely more refined. Here, respect was currency, and I was rich. I managed the shipping lines. I sat across from oligarchs and negotiated with the Russians. I wore tailored suits and stilettos that clicked on the marble floors of my penthouse like the ticking of a bomb. I didn't think about Chicago. I didn't think about the slums or the blood. Until Christmas. The snow was falling over the Colosseum, dusting the ancient ruins in white, when the package arrived. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, stamped with the Chicago postmark. My security team scanned it. It came up clean. I opened it on my glass coffee table. It was the leather Guest Book. The one I had thrown in the trash months ago, torn and ruined. But now, it had been cleaned. The leather was polished, smelling of pine and expensive wax. The spine had been restitched with meticulous care. I opened it to the page where they had written their insults. The ink had been scraped off. The paper was thin in those spots, fragile and translucent against the light. Over the damage, someone had written in neat, careful block letters: *North City has heavy snow this year. You get sick easily. Stay warm.* It was unsigned. But I knew the handwriting. It was Matteo's. He used to wrap his coat around me when we were on stakeouts. He used to warm my freezing hands between his calloused palms. A memory flashed in my mind—Matteo holding me while I cried over my father's coffin, promising he would never let me be cold again. *Liar.* I stood up. I walked to the fireplace. The flames were hungry, licking at the iron grate. I tossed the book into the fire. I watched the leather curl and blister. I watched the page turn black and crumble into ash. "Trash cannot be repaired," I said to the empty room. The phone rang. It was my private line. Only five people had the number. I picked it up. "Vitiello," I answered. There was silence on the other end. Then, a voice I hadn't heard in half a year. "Did you get the book?" It was Dante. His voice sounded deeper. Tired. Older. "I burned it," I said. There was a pause. "Why?" he asked. "It took Matteo weeks to fix it." "I didn't ask him to fix it. I threw it away." "Elena," Dante sighed. He sounded like he was talking to a stubborn child. "We forgive you." I laughed. It was a dry sound, devoid of humor. "You forgive me?" "For leaving. For the drama. We permit you to come back. Sofia passed her exams. She is a Soldier now. We can all be together again." He really believed it. He believed I was sitting in Rome, pining for his permission, waiting for him to open the cage door. "Dante," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Do not disturb my life." "Wait," he said quickly. Panic leaked into his tone. "Are you still mad? Is that it? Do you hate me for choosing her?" I looked out the window at the lights of the Eternal City. I checked my watch. I had a dinner meeting with a Sicilian Don in twenty minutes. "I don't hate you, Dante," I said. I heard him exhale. "Good. Because—" "I don't feel anything for you."