The Runaway Wife: Never Forgiving You

Elena POV

The bathroom mirror in the hospital lobby was cracked.

It fractured my reflection, splitting my face into two jagged, irreconcilable halves.

One half was the Mafia Queen, pale and defeated.

The other was the street rat from the Bronx, bleeding but stubbornly alive.

I pulled a shard of glass from my shoulder with tweezers I had stolen from a supply cart. I didn't flinch.

The pain was grounding. It reminded me that I was still in a body, even if my soul felt hollowed out, like a building gutted by fire.

I wrapped my arms in gauze, hiding the cuts from the champagne flutes, from the nails of the women who used to call me a friend.

I had work to do.

I checked my burner phone. The transfer was complete. The safe house in Germany was paid for in cash. A medical transport team was on standby, waiting for my signal to move Luca.

We just had to survive the night.

I pulled my coat tight around me and took the elevator up to the fourth floor. The private wing. The Vitiello wing.

The air grew colder the higher I went.

When the elevator doors dinged open, I heard the shouting. It wasn't the hushed tones of doctors. It was the shrill, entitled screech of a woman who had never known hunger.

I ran.

I rounded the corner to Luca's room and froze.

The hallway was full of black suits. Dante's men.

Inside the room, chaos reigned.

A middle-aged woman with blonde hair-Sofia's mother-was shoving the night nurse.

"Get away from him!" the woman yelled. "My daughter says this vegetable is draining the family resources!"

Sofia stood by the window, checking her nails. She looked bored, as if she were waiting for a manicure rather than a murder.

"Do it, Mom," Sofia said, her voice flat. "Just pull the plug. Dante said I could redecorate this wing for my studio."

"No!" I screamed.

I launched myself into the room. I didn't think. I didn't plan. I was ten years old again, fighting for a scrap of bread in the alley.

I grabbed Sofia's mother by the shoulder and threw her back. She stumbled, her expensive heels slipping on the linoleum.

"Don't you touch him!" I roared, standing between them and Luca's bed.

The beep of his heart monitor was the only rhythm I knew.

Sofia's mother looked at me, then at Sofia. Then, with the dramatic flair of a soap opera actress, she threw herself onto the floor.

"Help! She's killing me!" she wailed, clutching her hip.

Sofia let out a high-pitched scream. "Dante! Help! The crazy bitch is attacking my mother!"

The heavy oak doors swung open.

Dante filled the frame.

He took in the scene in a single second. His mistress's mother on the floor. His mistress screaming in terror. And me, wild-haired, bleeding through my coat, standing over them like a demon.

He didn't look at Luca. He didn't look at the terror in the nurse's eyes.

He looked at me with cold, judicial fury.

"Enough, Elena."

He didn't ask what happened. He didn't care.

"She tried to kill him, Dante!" I pointed at the woman on the floor. "They were going to unplug him!"

"Liar!" Sofia sobbed, rushing to Dante's side. "She's jealous! She attacked my poor mother because she hates me!"

Dante's jaw tightened.

"Remove her," he ordered the guards.

Two men stepped forward.

"No, Dante, please!" I begged, dropping to my knees. "Not this. Anything but this."

"Disconnect the ventilator," Dante said to the doctor behind him, his voice devoid of emotion. "We need this room cleared for Sofia's studio by morning."

The world stopped.

He wasn't just removing me. He was executing my brother.

"No!" I screamed, a sound that tore my throat raw.

I lunged for the emergency alarm on the wall. My hand slammed against the red button.

Alarms blared. Code Blue lights flashed. Doctors from the main hallway rushed toward the door.

Dante stepped into the doorway. He blocked them with his broad shoulders.

"Family matter," he growled at the chief surgeon. "No one enters."

"Dante, he needs oxygen!" I shrieked.

The guards grabbed my arms. They dragged me backward. I kicked. I bit. I clawed.

I watched the numbers on Luca's monitor drop.

90.

80.

Dante stood like a statue, guarding the door, ensuring his wife's punishment was absolute.

I broke free from one guard and ran for the stairwell, thinking I could get another doctor from the floor below.

I tripped.

My knees hit the concrete stairs. I tumbled down a flight, my head cracking against the railing.

Black spots danced across my vision.

But I crawled.

I crawled back up the stairs, blood dripping into my eyes. I dragged myself back to the hallway.

Silence.

The alarm had stopped. The screaming had stopped.

I looked into the room.

The monitor was a flat, green line.

Dante was checking his watch.

Sofia was smiling at her mother.

And Luca.

My Luca.

He was gone.

Dante looked down at me, sprawled on the floor.

"It's done, Elena. Go home."