The Betrayed Princess's New Reign

Elena Vitiello POV: The private Gulfstream jet tore through the clouds at forty thousand feet. The fuselage was branded with the massive, silver crest of the New York Outfit. I leaned back against the plush leather of the oversized aviation seat, wearing nothing but a sheer white silk nightgown. My skin hummed with exhaustion. The mirror in the lavatory had confirmed what my nerve endings already knew—my neck and collarbone were painted with dark, aggressive bruises. Dante walked out of the jet’s private galley holding a steaming mug of milk. He had stripped down to his black trousers and a fitted undershirt. He looked at me, his dark blue eyes heavy with a deeply sated, lazy arrogance. He handed me the mug and leaned down, pressing a lingering, damp kiss to my forehead. "You're a monster," I murmured, taking a sip of the warm milk. "I thought you'd be exhausted." Dante let out a low, rough hum. He took the mug from my hands, set it on the polished mahogany table, and gripped the armrests of my chair. He leaned in, trapping me, his body heat radiating through my thin silk. "I have enough stamina for round four right now," he whispered, his mouth brushing against my jawline. Before his lips could trail lower, the intercom chimed. "Boss, Donna. We are beginning our descent into Palermo. Please secure yourselves." Dante cursed softly in Italian. He pulled back, his jaw tight with frustration, and strapped himself into the seat across from me. *** The cliffside villa in Sicily was a fortress carved into ancient stone. The salty, sharp scent of the Mediterranean Sea whipped through the open arches. Night had fallen. We sat on the sprawling stone terrace, candles flickering between us. The table was covered in fresh oysters and expensive wine. Dante reached across the table, took my plate, and methodically cut my steak into perfect pieces before sliding it back to me. Two miles down the winding coastal road, hidden in the dense olive groves, a dozen heavily armed men checked the suppressors on their rifles. Their eyes were cold, calculating. The old Roman families were bleeding money because of Dante's expansion, and they had come to collect their debt. I wiped my mouth with a linen napkin and stood up. "I need a shower to wash the plane off me." Dante nodded, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "I'll be right in." The bathroom was massive, lined with black marble. I turned on the shower, letting the hot water pound against my aching muscles. The steam quickly fogged the glass. Out on the terrace, Dante lit a cigarette. He took one drag before he stopped. His eyes narrowed. The wind had shifted, carrying a faint, metallic scent. Gun oil. A split second later, the entire villa plunged into pitch-black darkness. The backup generators didn't kick in. The power lines had been physically severed. Dante dropped the cigarette. He drew the heavy Beretta from his shoulder holster and melted into the shadows, moving silently toward the master suite. In the bathroom, the lights dying didn't make me scream. I didn't freeze. New York had trained the victim out of me. I immediately reached out and twisted the shower handle off. In the sudden silence, I grabbed my thick terrycloth robe, slipped it on, and pressed my back flat against the cold marble wall beside the door. *Crash.* The floor-to-ceiling windows in the bedroom shattered. Three men in tactical gear rolled through the broken glass. The harsh beams of their tactical flashlights swept wildly across the room. Dante was waiting behind the heavy oak door. As the first assassin stepped past him, Dante lunged. He grabbed the man’s chin and the back of his head, twisting violently. The sickening crack of the man's neck breaking echoed in the dark. The other two spun around, their suppressed submachine guns spitting fire. Bullets tore through the room. Down feathers exploded from the bed pillows, filling the air like snow. Dante dove behind a heavy oak dresser. He popped up, fired two shots, and both assassins dropped, their skulls split open. Blood soaked into the antique Persian rug. Dante exhaled, lowering his gun. He didn't see the fourth man climbing over the balcony railing from a blind spot. The assassin raised his pistol, aiming squarely at the center of Dante’s back. I kicked the bathroom door open. I stepped out barefoot, my wet hair dripping onto my shoulders. My face was completely devoid of emotion. In one fluid motion, I reached under my robe to the tactical garter strapped to my thigh. I drew the custom, ivory-handled micro-pistol Dante had given me. The assassin heard the door and whipped his head toward me. I didn't flinch. I gripped the gun with both hands, locked my elbows, and squeezed the trigger. *Bang.* The shot was deafening in the enclosed room. The bullet caught the assassin directly between the eyes. He collapsed backward, hitting the floor less than three feet from Dante. Dante spun around. He looked at the dead body, then looked up at me. His pupils dilated. The room reeked of cordite and fresh blood. I lowered the gun. I walked barefoot across the room, my soles crunching over the broken glass, until I stood right in front of him. Dante didn't say a word. He violently slapped the gun out of my hand. It clattered across the floor. He grabbed my shoulders and slammed me back against the wall, his chest heaving. His hands frantically roamed over my body, checking for bullet holes, tearing the robe open to inspect my skin. When he found nothing but a tiny scratch on my heel from the glass, his eyes turned rimmed with red. I lifted my hands and cupped his tense, stubbled jaw. My thumb brushed away a splatter of the assassin's blood on his cheek. "I'm fine, Dante." Outside, the sound of heavy boots crunching on gravel echoed up from the driveway. The main assault team had arrived. Dante bent down and picked up two of the dropped assault rifles. He checked the magazines, tossed one to me, and smiled. It was a terrifying, bloodthirsty grin. I caught the heavy rifle. I pulled the charging handle back, the metal clacking loudly in the quiet room. "Let's send them to hell, darling."