Dante answered her call from a hospital, commanding her to leave, no apology. Her father and 500 mafia guests outside whispered of "humiliation." Marco then cleared Dante's things, revealing he was moving his long-comatose 'white swan,' Sofia, into their intended home. Her father's ultimatum: win Dante back in thirty days, or be married to a sadistic Russian boss.
Discarded, betrayed, and trapped, Elena felt absolute humiliation. She despised five years wasted, facing a fate worse than death. But as tears blurred her vision, a dangerous thought ignited: Dante wasn't the only Moretti. She wouldn't cry or beg. Instead, she'd choose the most terrifying Moretti of all, and make Dante pay for his arrogance.
Chapter 1
Elena Vitiello POV:
I took a deep breath, or at least tried to. The boning of my custom corset dug into my ribs, restricting the air in my lungs. I stood perfectly still in the bridal suite of St. Patrick's Cathedral, staring at the woman in the mirror. She looked flawless. After five years of swallowing my pride, of molding myself into the perfect, invisible shadow Dante Moretti required, I was finally getting my reward. The psychological comfort of seeing myself in this white gown was the only thing keeping my hands steady.
I reached up, my fingertips lightly brushing the handmade lace of my veil. A slight tremor ran through my fingers. I could hardly believe it. In less than an hour, I would officially carry the Moretti name. The peace treaty between the New York Outfit and the Vitiello family would be sealed in blood and vows.
A harsh vibration shattered the quiet of the room.
I pulled my hand back from the veil as if I had been burned. My phone sat on the vanity, buzzing aggressively against the polished wood. The screen lit up with a blinding glare. Dante's name flashed across the display.
I leaned over and picked it up. A text message. I swiped the screen open, a soft smile already forming on my lips, expecting a brief command or a check-in.
The smile froze. My heart felt like it had been struck by a sledgehammer.
The message read: Wedding canceled
There was no punctuation. No explanation. Just two words delivered with the cold, minimalist authority Dante used when ordering an execution. My brain went completely blank. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, unbreathable.
I blinked hard, trying to clear the sudden blurriness from my vision. My fingers gripped the edges of the phone so tightly my knuckles turned stark white.
I tapped his number and put the phone to my ear. The mechanical ringing echoed in the silent room, amplifying the rising panic in my chest. One ring. Two rings. Three.
It went to voicemail. The automated female voice grated against my ears, making my stomach cramp. I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat, hung up, and dialed again.
On the third attempt, the line clicked open.
Before he could speak, the background noise hit me. The rhythmic, high-pitched beeping of medical monitors. The squeak of rubber shoes on linoleum. The sterile sounds of a hospital.
"Why?" I asked, my voice trembling. My throat was so dry it physically hurt to push the word out.
Silence met my question. A dead, suffocating silence.
Then, Dante's voice came through. It was low, deep, and entirely devoid of warmth. "Leave through the back door. Now."
There was no apology. No explanation. Just a rigid command that shattered the last pathetic illusion I had been clinging to.
"Dante," I tried to raise my voice, my grip on the phone bruising my palm. "There are five hundred mafia guests out there. My father is out there."
"Do not make me repeat myself, Elena," he snapped roughly.
The line went dead. The dial tone sliced through my eardrums like a razor blade. My fingers went numb, and the phone slipped from my hand, hitting the thick carpet with a dull thud.
Footsteps hurried down the hallway outside. Low gasps and frantic whispers bled through the heavy solid wood door. The panic was spreading. Someone grabbed the doorknob, twisting it violently. The friction of the metal sounded like a death sentence.
I stepped back instinctively, my hips bumping against the vanity.
Through the door, I could hear the guests murmuring. The words "Moretti" and "humiliation" drifted through the wood. A sharp, piercing laugh echoed down the hall. The sound made my blood run cold.
I looked down at the twenty-pound haute couture gown. A few minutes ago, the heavy layers of silk and lace were a symbol of my glory. Now, they were a suffocating shackle.
I reached up and grabbed the diamond tiara pinned to my hair. I yanked it hard. Dozens of hair strands ripped out by the roots. The sharp sting on my scalp snapped me out of my shock.
I slammed the tiara onto the vanity mirror. The glass cracked, a spiderweb of fractures splintering my reflection into broken, jagged pieces.
I reached behind my back and grabbed the invisible zipper of the dress. The metal teeth caught on the delicate lace. I didn't care. I pulled with all my strength, tearing the expensive fabric with a loud rip.
The heavy gown pooled at my feet in a heap of ruined white. Cold air rushed against my bare skin, filling my lungs and triggering a violent fit of coughing.
I stepped out of the wreckage of the dress. My bare feet hit the freezing marble floor, sending a chill straight up my legs and into my chest.
I walked to the wardrobe and yanked the heavy wooden doors open. They slammed against the wall with a loud bang, knocking the bridal bouquet off a nearby chair.
I grabbed a spare black trench coat and shoved my arms into the sleeves, wrapping the rough fabric tightly around my body over just my underwear. The coarse material rubbed against my skin, grounding me with the physical discomfort.
I walked back to the cracked mirror. My eyes were red, the edges stinging with unshed tears. I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. Vitiellos did not cry. Survival in my family meant showing no weakness.
I grabbed a makeup wipe and scrubbed the bright red lipstick off my mouth. I rubbed so hard the red smeared across my cheek, looking exactly like a streak of fresh blood.
The knocking on the door turned into violent pounding. My father's suppressed, furious roar vibrated through the gap beneath the door.
I bent down, picked up my phone from the carpet, and gripped it tight. Dante's name was still on the screen. It felt like a massive, cruel joke.
I closed my eyes and took one final, deep breath. When I opened them, the vulnerability was gone, replaced by absolute, freezing ice.
"I will not shed a single tear for you, Dante."
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