Elena Vitiello POV:
I lay perfectly still on the stiff hospital mattress, staring up at a brown water stain on the ceiling.
The heavy dose of surgical anesthesia was rapidly burning out of my system, leaving behind a rising tide of excruciating pain. It radiated from my lower back, sharp and biting, like broken glass grinding against my muscles with every breath. I refused to press the plastic call button for morphine. I needed the physical agony. It kept my mind razor-sharp and absolutely clear.
The dead silence of the room was suddenly broken by the squeak of rubber wheels in the hallway.
Heavy footsteps and the low hum of conversation drifted through the thin walls. The bottom-tier staff in this private mob hospital lived for the scandalous gossip of the ruling families.
A medical cart rolled to a halt right outside my door. Two nurses paused, assuming the heavily medicated woman inside was dead to the world. They didn't bother to lower their voices. Stripped of Dante’s protection, I wasn't the Donna anymore. I was just a joke.
"Did you see the monitors for Miss Bianchi in the penthouse VIP suite?" the older nurse muttered, her voice dripping with morbid fascination. "She is lucky to be alive."
*Sofia Bianchi.*
The name acted like a physical shock to my nervous system. My breath hitched, and the muscles in my stomach violently contracted.
"I saw Mr. Moretti," the younger nurse sighed, her tone thick with naive envy. "He is practically sleeping in the chair next to her bed. He even yelled at Dr. Evans for not warming the saline bags before her IV. He treats her like fragile glass."
My hands, hidden beneath the thin blanket, curled into tight fists. My fingernails bit so deeply into my palms that the skin nearly broke.
Dante’s obsessive tenderness toward Sofia was the exact warmth he had systematically starved me of for ten years.
"Yeah, well, look who is paying the price," the older nurse sneered cruelly. "The lawful wife is rotting down here in general admission. She doesn't even know her husband gutted her like a fish to save his whore."
The blunt, ugly truth from a stranger's mouth sliced deeper than the scalpel.
"Jesus," the younger nurse gasped. "It’s insane. The Boss of the Chicago Outfit, carving up his own wife for his mistress."
"Keep your voice down," the older nurse snapped. "Mr. Moretti is up there right now, personally spoon-feeding her bird's nest soup. He's in a great mood. Don't ruin it."
My heart felt like it was seized in a vice grip, squeezing until my chest burned.
Two years ago, Dante had been shot in the shoulder. I spent three hours standing over a hot stove making him a traditional Italian broth. I had accidentally grabbed a boiling pot handle, suffering second-degree burns across my entire right hand. When I brought it to him, he hadn't even looked up from his phone. *Just leave it on the table,* he had said.
"I guess the Outfit is getting a new First Lady soon," the younger nurse chimed in as the cart began to roll away.
The squeaking wheels faded down the corridor, leaving the cold, sterile room feeling like a tomb.
I didn't shed a single tear. My tear ducts felt completely scorched. Instead, my eyes burned with a dry, intense heat. The suffocating grief had crossed a threshold, mutating instantly into a pure, concentrated desire to destroy.
I gritted my teeth and forced my upper body off the mattress.
Every single muscle fiber in my core screamed in protest. The fresh incision on my back felt like it was tearing open all over again. I locked my jaw to trap the groan in my throat. I couldn't lie here and wait for them to finish me off.
My eyes locked onto a cheap plastic belongings bag tossed carelessly onto the bedside table. My phone was inside. It was my only lifeline to the outside world.
I stretched my right arm out. The movement pulled the stitches taut. Massive drops of cold sweat broke out on my forehead, sliding down my nose and splashing onto the white sheets. Reaching across two feet of space felt like crawling through a minefield.
My fingertips finally brushed the crinkling plastic. I clamped my hand down and yanked the bag onto my chest.
Having the device in my hands sent a microscopic wave of control back into my system. I ripped the plastic open and pulled out the heavy, black encrypted phone.
The screen lit up, illuminating my pale face. There were fifteen missed calls. All of them were from the Outfit’s legitimate business managers and money launderers. Not a single call was checking on my health. I was just the machine that kept their money clean.
I swiped past the notifications and opened a hidden, dual-encrypted contact list. As the family's shadow accountant, I held the keys to networks Dante barely understood.
My thumb hovered over a contact with no name, just a blank space.
I hesitated for three seconds. Hitting call meant burning my bridges to the ground. It meant betraying my father, my bloodline, and the city I grew up in.
Then, the phantom echo of Dante's voice in the operating room rang in my ears. *She is a political placeholder.*
That memory snapped the last thread of my loyalty. My eyes hardened, turning as cold and unforgiving as the Siberian tundra. The obedient wife died on that operating table. The woman holding the phone was a weapon.
I pressed the call button and lifted the phone to my ear. The encrypted digital ringing pulsed against my eardrum. It was the sound of a declaration of war.
Suddenly, heavy, rapid footsteps echoed in the hallway, heading straight for my door.
My survival instincts flared. I shoved the phone deep under the blanket, pressed my head back onto the pillow, and closed my eyes, forcing my breathing into a slow, rhythmic pattern of deep sleep.
The door handle clicked. The door was pushed open a few inches. A janitor peeked in, holding a mop. Seeing me "asleep," he quietly pulled the door shut again.
I let out a slow, controlled breath and pulled the phone back up.
The ringing had stopped. The line was open. I could hear the slow, heavy, predatory breathing of a man who owned the world. He didn't speak first. It was the ultimate power move.
I swallowed hard, suppressing the tremor of pain in my chest, and spoke a single, flawless Italian phrase into the receiver.
"Il falco è caduto." *The falcon has fallen.*
It was the blood pact we made five years ago in a dark alley, when I saved his life during a botched negotiation.
The heavy breathing on the other end paused for half a second. Then, a low, dark chuckle vibrated through the speaker, dripping with absolute danger.
I gripped the phone tightly, anchoring myself to the monster on the other end of the line.
"Enzo, I want to cash in that favor."
