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."