Elena POV

I walked back inside the hushed interior of the jewelry shop.

I threw Dante's declined black card into the unlit, decorative fireplace.

I opened my bag and used my own hidden stash of cash—the untraceable bills from the necklace sale—to pay for the blood-oath rings.

The jeweler handed me the heavy velvet box with trembling hands, his eyes darting away from my cold gaze.

I went back to the airless penthouse and waited.

Dante returned late that night, bringing the scent of gunpowder and rain into the foyer.

He poured himself a large measure of amber drink and casually mentioned the safehouse.

He said he used our clean funds to buy it because Isabella needed to feel secure after the ambush.

"You used our personal escape funds," I asked, my voice a low thread of disbelief, "for another woman?"

Dante slammed his glass down on the marble counter, the sound cracking like a whip.

He called me materialistic.

He insulted my six years of silent loyalty, claiming I only cared about money while his people were bleeding in the streets.

My chest felt hollow, as if the man I loved had carved me out from the inside.

I held myself rigid; I fired back, questioning what my sacrifices—my blood, my silence—actually meant to him.

Dante was enraged by my defiance, taking a threatening step forward.

He told me I was acting like a spoiled, ungrateful child.

He stormed past me and locked himself in the guest wing, the heavy oak door slamming shut.

I stood alone in the vast kitchen, feeling nothing but a chilling emptiness.

My burner phone vibrated in my pocket.

It was an encrypted message from the Chicago Outfit.

My sit-down interview was scheduled for the end of the week.

Two days later, Dante emerged and acted like nothing had happened.

He ordered me to attend a high-stakes VIP banquet.

It was a celebration of a massive money-laundering victory orchestrated by Rocco.

I wore a black dress that felt more like armor than silk.

We arrived at the gilded VIP room of the Famiglia Casino.

The room was filled with cigar smoke, Underbosses, Capos, and their jeweled wives.

I walked in, my chin held high, and immediately froze.

Isabella was standing at the center of the room, bathing in the attention.

She was wearing a custom-designed diamond necklace that dwarfed the Vitiello heirloom in both size and extravagance.

Dante had secretly commissioned a new, obscenely expensive piece for her.

Isabella was acting as the true hostess.

She poured Dante's whiskey and softly instructed the Capos on his specific preferences.

The hardened men looked at her with respect, and then glanced at me with pity.

I walked up to the bar, my posture perfectly straight, refusing to let them see the wound.

I coldly mocked her for overstepping the hierarchy.

"Playing house with another woman's husband," I murmured, my words meant only for her, "does not make you royalty."

Isabella gasped, and her eyes instantly filled with well-rehearsed tears.

She shrank back, looking terrified of me.

Dante stepped between us, his face a chilling mask of pure fury.

He enforced his authority in front of his men.

He called me hysterical, his voice cutting through the room.

He demanded I apologize to Isabella, right there in front of the watching Underbosses.

The entire room went dead silent, waiting for my submission.

I looked at the man I had bled for, the man who had just stripped away my last ounce of dignity.

I refused to bow.

Dante pointed a rigid finger toward the heavy double doors.

"Get out of my sight," he ordered.

Behind me, I heard the heavy thud of a glass striking the bar, followed by a ragged gasp. I did not pause, but reached for the heavy revolving door. The soft grinding of its central pivot cut his strangled cry in two, sealing it behind me.

In that moment, standing alone in the cold corridor with the muffled sounds of the banquet bleeding through the walls, I made a decision. I would attend one last meeting as Elena Vitiello. And then I would burn that name to ash.

But first, I needed to get inside his vault. And I knew exactly whose death date he used for the code.