Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him

Seraphina Vitiello POV

The summons arrived via a text message from an unknown number.

*Penthouse. 8 PM. Attendance mandatory.*

It was not a request. Dante Moretti did not deal in requests.

He was the Capo of the most violent faction in the Outfit, a man who, just last week, had executed three rivals in a crowded restaurant without getting a single drop of blood on his bespoke suit.

I dressed in black—a simple, high-necked dress with long sleeves.

I wanted nothing more than to blend into the shadows.

When I arrived at his penthouse building downtown, the doorman let me in without a word. He knew who I was. Or rather, he knew who my sister was; I was merely the ghost that trailed in her wake.

The elevator ride was a smooth, silent ascent.

When the doors slid open, the sound of laughter hit me like a physical blow.

Isabella was lounging on the leather sofa, holding a glass of champagne, while Dante stood by the window, looking out at the city lights.

He wore a charcoal suit, tailored to fit shoulders that looked broad enough to carry the weight of the city. Lethal.

He turned when I entered.

His eyes were dark, intelligent, and completely cold.

There was no recognition in them. No memory of the nights I had held him while he screamed in pain. No trace of the promises he had whispered to the girl in the dark.

"You are late," he said.

His voice was a low rumble that vibrated deep in my chest.

"I apologize," I said softly.

I kept my eyes fixed on the knot of his tie. I could not look at his face; it hurt too much to see a stranger looking back at me.

Isabella stood up and floated towards him, placing a possessive hand on his arm.

"Don't be harsh, Dante. She probably got lost. You know Seraphina isn't very... sharp."

She smiled at me. It was a predator's smile, all teeth and no warmth.

Dante looked at her hand on his arm, then back at me.

Without a word, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream-colored envelope.

He held it out to me.

I walked forward and took it. It was heavy, printed on expensive cardstock.

The wedding invitation.

*Dante Moretti & Isabella Vitiello.*

"We expect you to be there," Dante said, his tone clinical. "To show unity. The rumors about your mental instability are affecting the family image."

*Mental instability.*

That was Isabella's narrative. Seraphina is crazy. Seraphina makes things up. Seraphina is jealous.

I looked down at the invitation. The font was an elegant script, but to me, it looked like a tombstone engraving.

"Understood," I said.

Dante narrowed his eyes.

He stepped closer, invading my personal space until I could smell him. Sandalwood and gunpowder.

It was the same scent that had filled the safe house—the scent that used to mean safety. Now, it reeked of danger.

"Is that all you have to say?" he asked.

"What would you like me to say?" I asked, keeping my voice devoid of emotion. "Congratulations?"

Isabella laughed—a brittle, performative sound.

"See? She's so bitter."

Dante's jaw tightened.

"We are going to the club," he said abruptly. "You will come with us. We need to be seen in public as a family."

I did not want to go, but I had no choice.

We took the private elevator down to the waiting car.

We drove to The Onyx, the club Dante owned, where the paparazzi were already swarming like vultures.

Flashes of light exploded like gunfire as soon as the doors opened.

Dante exited first, extending a hand to Isabella. She stepped out, glowing, soaking in the attention as if it were sunlight.

I followed, keeping my head down.

We walked towards the entrance, beneath the loud buzz of the neon sign. *THE ONYX*.

I looked up just as a spark showered down.

Then came the screech of tearing metal.

The heavy support bolt had sheared off. The massive letter 'O' detached from the brick facade.

It was falling.

Straight towards us.

"Look out!" someone screamed.

Time seemed to fracture.

I saw Dante react. His reflexes were honed, almost inhuman.

He was standing between me and Isabella. He had a split second to choose.

He could have pushed us both. Or he could ensure the absolute safety of one.

He didn't hesitate.

He lunged to his right.

He wrapped his arms around Isabella, shielding her body with his own, diving away from the impact zone.

He left me standing there.

I didn't move. I didn't try to run. I just watched him choose her.

The metal sign slammed into the pavement.

It clipped my shoulder and fractured my left shinbone.

The pain was white, blinding, and absolute.

I collapsed.

The world turned into a blur of screaming voices and flashing lights.

I lay on the cold concrete, tasting copper in my mouth. Through the haze of pain, I turned my head.

I saw Dante standing up.

He was scanning Isabella frantically.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her, his voice laced with panic. "Let me see your hands."

Isabella was crying, clinging to him, though she didn't have a scratch on her.

Dante held her face in his hands, wiping away her tears.

He didn't look at me.

Not once.

I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me.