Chapter 3

Elena's POV

Talia turned around, her face wreathed in a smile so saccharine it made my teeth ache.

She paraded around like the lady of the house, idly twirling a paint-dripping brush, its tip aimed at my late mother's imported Persian rug.

Not a shred of shame crossed her face at intruding on a private place of peace that should have had nothing to do with the underworld.

"Dante gave me the keys," she declared, her voice dripping with manufactured innocence. "He said the light in here is perfect for preparing my upcoming solo exhibition."

I stepped forward, my nails digging so deep into my palms they drew blood.

"You have no right to be here!" I screamed, my voice shaking violently with rage at the sight of paint splattered across the priceless antique rosewood furniture my late parents had left me.

"Get out of my house!"

Dante immediately stepped in front of Talia, raising an arm to shield her.

He rolled his eyes and let out a scoffing laugh.

"That's enough, Elena. Stop making a mountain out of a molehill," he snapped impatiently. "They're just a few pieces of rotten wood. It's nothing—why are you carrying on like a madwoman?"

Talia feigned terror and cowered behind his broad shoulders.

She deliberately rammed her elbow into the heavy metal easel, then clutched her arm and gasped theatrically, pretending she had scraped it.

A blind panic flashed through Dante's eyes.

To protect her from supposed harm at my hands, he lunged forward and shoved me violently aside.

My boots slipped on the paint-soaked hardwood floor, and I lost my balance in an instant.

I toppled backward, the world spinning, until my lower back slammed into the hard, sharp edge of the marble console.

Amid the sudden dead silence of the room, a sickening, bone-deep crack rang out.

Unbearable pain exploded through my lumbar spine, instantly driving every breath of air from my lungs.

I crumpled onto the cold floor like a sack of wet rags, clutching my side in despair, too paralyzed by pain to stand.

Dante looked down at me, his gaze full of icy disgust.

"Elena, your very life is a gift from me," he growled, airily twisting the entire truth of our past. "I'm the one who saved this empire."

He jabbed a vicious finger at the woman cowering behind him. "It was Talia who introduced me to that political magnate back then. She's the reason we weren't destroyed by federal racketeering charges."

"As for those Russian wiretap transcripts you spent all those all-nighters translating? Worthless."

A shrill phone buzz shattered the frozen air. It was Marco.

Dante answered, his voice snapping back into the calm, imperious register of a mafia godfather.

A moment later he hung up, and those dead eyes settled on me again—still crumpled on the floor, struggling for every breath.

"You will be at tonight's members-only club gathering, on time," he ordered, adjusting his cufflinks in a tone that brooked no argument.

"You will publicly raise a reconciliation toast to Talia tonight and end this ridiculous, petty little farce you've stirred up."

Then he turned and walked away without a backward glance, his arm wrapped tenderly around Talia's slim waist, leaving me crippled and collapsed on the floor.

A few minutes later, the unfriendly buyer I had scheduled walked in, surveying the wrecked room.

I swallowed the last two painkillers from my tactical kit. Forcing down the searing, knifing pain in my spine, I clawed my way up the wall to my feet as darkness swam before my eyes.

Cold sweat slid down my forehead.

Staring the buyer dead in the eye, I offered on the spot a bargain price no one on earth could refuse—my only condition being an instant lightning-fast transfer of title on the dark web.

Reading my desperation, he greedily agreed and initiated the encrypted transfer right then and there.

I hobbled toward the car, clamping my lip between my teeth to swallow the screams—every single step felt like a serrated blade twisting deep inside my spine.

I had to flee this city tonight. But before I went, I had to retrieve my grandmother's sacred Sicilian amulet.

It was the only family heirloom I had left, and like a fool, I had left it on the back seat of Dante's armored SUV.

That night, fighting through the pain, I drove to the underground garage of the syndicate's members-only club.

Gritting my teeth against the searing, bone-deep agony, I limped toward Dante's bulletproof SUV.

I pulled hard on the heavy door handle, but the car was locked tight.

Panic spread through my chest in an instant.

To get my grandmother's amulet, I needed his car keys.

Left with no other choice, I pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the main lounge.

The entire family's core leadership was there, waiting for me.

Before I could take a second step, two of Dante's bodyguards flanked me, frisked me roughly, and snatched the spare key fob I'd lifted from his study that afternoon out of my pocket.

They had plainly coordinated in advance, preparing a goblet of liquor laced with harsh drugs and bitter herbs, served in an enormous crystal glass that exuded menace.

This was no reconciliation toast. It was the underworld's punitive poison wine, meant to strip me of all dignity in front of every last one of his men.

Dante lounged idly against the bar, my silver car keys dangling from his fingertips.

"Drink it, Elena," he commanded from on high, holding my only hope of escape hostage.

"Apologize to Talia, or you'll never see those keys again."

Talia glided forward, her exquisitely manicured fingers lifting the doctored glass.

With deliberate provocation she held the heavy goblet out to me, a victor's smug, cold smile that never once reached her eyes, flaunting without restraint the privilege she had spent years pretending was unshakable.