The Underboss's Secret: A Mafia Bride's Escape

Elara POV:

The broken pieces of the bird lay scattered on the pristine white marble. It was more than wood. It was my father's last promise, a symbol of a loyalty that had gotten him killed and me trapped.

"Oh, my god, I'm so sorry!" Sienna gasped, but her eyes held a triumphant glint she barely concealed. She bent down, pretending to gather the pieces, and then let out a sharp cry. "Ow! I cut myself."

She held up her finger, a tiny, almost invisible bead of blood welling up.

Dante's entire demeanor shifted. The cold indifference he showed me vanished, replaced by a dark, protective fury. He knelt beside Sienna, taking her hand as if she were made of glass.

"Are you okay?" he murmured, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.

Something inside me, something that had been silent and broken for three years, finally snapped.

"She's lying," I said, my voice trembling, raw with a fury I hadn't realized was coiled inside me. "She did it on purpose. Check the security cameras, Dante."

I took a step forward, and Sienna flinched back against him, her eyes wide with fake fear. "Dante, she's scaring me."

That was all it took.

I slapped her. The sound was like a gunshot in the silent penthouse.

Dante's head whipped toward me. His face was a mask of disbelief that quickly hardened into pure menace. He saw my defiance. An insult to his authority, in his home, in front of his future bride.

"You dare?" he whispered, the word a low growl.

He rose to his full height, a towering shadow of rage. He stalked toward me, and I braced myself. He raised his hand-the same hand that had held me and hurt me and promised me a future. For a second, I saw the blow coming. A public, final humiliation.

But he stopped, his hand hovering inches from my face. The violence in his eyes was worse than any physical strike.

"Don't you ever touch her again," he snarled, his voice laced with a lethal promise. "Get out."

I didn't need to be told twice. I grabbed my bag and fled, not even looking back at the wreckage of my father's memory on his floor. Out in the hallway, the elevator doors slid open. As I stepped inside, I caught a final glimpse of him, his back to me, gently dabbing Sienna's finger with his handkerchief.

The cold Chicago rain hit me the moment I stepped outside. Soaked in seconds, I dragged my suitcase down the street, the memory a cruel twist in my gut. I remembered being thirteen, when a group of older boys from a rival territory had cornered me. Dante, only sixteen himself, had appeared out of nowhere. He'd broken one boy's nose and another's arm, standing over me like a guardian devil. "Nobody touches what's mine," he had growled then.

Now, I wasn't his anymore.

The next few days were a blur of grief and grim determination. I stayed in the small apartment my father's pension had paid for and booked a flight. One way. To Australia. To Julian.

The door to my apartment crashed open, splintering the frame.

Dante stood there, his face a mask of cold fury. Rain dripped from his black coat onto the worn floorboards. He advanced on me, backing me up against the wall until my head hit the plaster.

His hand closed around my throat, not enough to choke me, but enough to hold me captive. His eyes were wild.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

I stared back, bewildered. "Who?"

"Don't play dumb with me," he snarled, his grip tightening. "Sienna. She's gone. Left a note saying you threatened her, that you told her to disappear if she knew what was good for her."

He leaned in, his face inches from mine. "So I'll ask you one more time. Where is she?"