The Mafia King's Regret: She Moved On

The walls of my bedroom seemed to be closing in, shrinking the space until it felt less like a room and more like a prison cell.

I had been staring at the ceiling for six hours, tracing the cracks in the plaster just to keep my mind from fracturing.

Downstairs, my mother was crying softly in the kitchen, a low, continuous sound of mourning.

My father was pacing, the floorboards creaking under the weight of his fear.

The bakery was dark, the life drained out of it. The "Closed" sign in the window felt like a tombstone.

A sharp tap on my window made me jump.

I pulled back the curtain. Giulia was crouching on the fire escape, shivering in the biting night air.

I shoved the window open.

"Are you crazy?" I whispered, glancing back at my locked door. "If they see you here..."

"I don't care," she said, climbing inside. She pulled a stack of papers from under her jacket. "I brought your law notes. You left them in the locker."

I took the papers, my throat tight. "Thank you."

"And this," she said.

She handed me a black notebook. It was leather-bound, embossed with gold initials. D.V.

I froze, the air leaving my lungs.

"Dante gave it to me," Giulia said quietly, refusing to meet my eyes. "He said... he said it has contacts. Numbers for lawyers who owe him favors. People who can help you transfer to a school out of state without the Family's interference."

I looked at the notebook.

It was a peace offering. A life raft.

No.

It was payment.

It was a severance package.

He was paying me to disappear. To take the fall quietly and go away so he didn't have to deal with the guilt of ruining my life.

Rage, hot and white, flooded my veins, burning away the fear.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"He's outside," Giulia said. "Down the street. In his car."

I didn't think. I grabbed the notebook and ran.

I flew down the stairs, past my startled parents-ignoring my mother's gasp and my father's shout-and burst out the back door.

The street was empty, lit only by the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamps.

A black SUV was parked at the corner, the engine idling like a sleeping beast.

I marched up to the driver's side and banged on the glass.

The window rolled down.

Dante sat there, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. He looked exhausted, shadows carved deep beneath his eyes.

I hurled the notebook through the window. It hit his chest with a dull thud and fell into his lap.

"I don't want it," I said.

Dante picked up the book. His fingers tightened around the leather until his knuckles turned white.

"Elena," he said. "Take it. It's your way out."

"I don't need your charity," I spat. "And I don't need your guilt money. Is this how you sleep at night? You ruin a girl's life to save your political alliance, and then you buy her a scholarship?"

"It's not charity," he said, his voice low, rough with suppressed emotion. "It's protection. If you stay here, Bianca won't stop. She'll plant something worse next time."

"So you're saving me?" I asked, incredulous. "By exiling me?"

"I'm doing what I can," he said.

"You're the Underboss!" I screamed, the title tearing from my throat like a curse. "You could have stopped her. You could have told the truth. But you didn't."

He looked away, staring out the windshield into the darkness. "It's complicated."

"No," I said, stepping back. "It's simple. You're weak."

His head snapped back to me, his eyes flashing with sudden anger.

"I am trying to keep you alive," he growled.

"I'd rather be dead than owe you a damn thing," I said, my voice shaking with the force of my conviction. "I will get out of this city. I will become a lawyer. And I will do it without a single cent of your blood money."

I turned around.

"Elena," he called after me.

"Go to hell, Dante," I said over my shoulder. "I'll see you there."