The Mafia King's Regret: She Moved On

The library was the only place in the compound where I felt like a person, rather than a piece of furniture.

It was 2:00 AM.

I was huddled in the back corner, buried under a stack of contract law textbooks. The silence was heavy, saturated with the scent of old paper and dust.

I closed my book, pressing the heels of my palms against my burning eyes.

"Rossi."

The name sliced through the stillness.

I jumped, spinning around in my chair.

Dante was leaning against the bookshelf in the shadows. He was wearing a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the corded muscle of his forearms.

He knew my name.

My heart did a traitorous little flip before my brain reminded me of the gym floor. The cold tile against my cheek. The look of absolute revulsion on his face.

"Mr. Vitiello," I said, standing up abruptly. I clutched my book to my chest like a shield. "Do you need the room? I was just leaving."

"I'm not here to read," he said. He pushed off the shelf and strode toward me.

He stopped three feet away. The safe zone.

"About this morning," he started, his voice low, vibrating in the quiet room. "Bianca... she has a sharp tongue. She didn't mean to insult your family's business."

I stared at him.

He wasn't apologizing for flinching at my touch as if I were diseased. He wasn't apologizing for calling me a rat. He was doing damage control for the Capo's daughter.

"Are you apologizing as the Underboss, or as her babysitter?" I asked.

The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

Dante's eyes narrowed. The air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Careful," he warned softly. "I'm trying to be civil. I don't want any friction with the civilian staff."

"Friction?" I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "You treated me like I was radioactive because I tripped. Bianca called my family's livelihood 'trash'."

"It's just a suit, Elena," he said, the use of my first name sounding like a foreign word on his tongue. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. "This should cover the bakery's trouble. And the dry cleaning."

He held it out. Hush money.

He thought he could pay for my dignity.

I looked at the envelope, then up at his face. He looked bored. Impatient. Like this was just another item on a checklist.

"My father wakes up at 3 AM every day to make that bread," I said, my voice steady despite the shaking of my hands. "It's honest work. It doesn't taste like blood."

Dante's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

"We don't want your money," I said. "And I don't want your apology. We are even."

I shoved my book into my bag and stepped around him.

"Elena," he said.

I didn't stop. I walked to the heavy oak door.

"You're making a mistake," he called out.

"My mistake," I said, yanking the door open, "was thinking you were different from the rest of them."

I slammed the door shut, severing the connection, and locked it from the outside.