Elena Vitiello POV:
"Elena."
Enzo Falcone’s voice poured through the encrypted frequency. It was dark, gravelly, and laced with a terrifying undercurrent of tension. He had waited five years for this call.
I swallowed hard, my throat parched and raw from the breathing tube. The simple movement sent a vicious spasm of pain shooting through my lower back. I couldn't stop the sharp, hissing intake of breath from escaping my lips.
"What happened to you?" Enzo demanded. The lazy arrogance vanished instantly. His voice dropped an octave, turning into a weapon. He noticed everything.
I ignored the question. I refused to sound like a victim. "The promise you made me in Palermo," I rasped, keeping my tone completely flat. "Does it still stand?"
A loud, violent crash echoed through the phone. It sounded like a heavy oak desk being violently overturned, followed immediately by the startled shouts of his lieutenants. Enzo had jumped to his feet. The untouchable Don of Sicily was losing his legendary composure over a single sentence.
"Say the word," Enzo’s voice came back, cold and sharp as a freshly honed straight razor. "I will burn Chicago to the ground. Every man wearing a Vitiello or Moretti pin will be dead by morning."
The absolute, unhesitating promise of violence hit me right in the chest. My eyes burned, the edges of my vision blurring with unshed tears. For ten years, my own husband had offered me nothing but cold calculation. Now, a rival boss was offering me the world on a platter of blood.
I blinked the tears away rapidly. "Dante drugged me," I stated, my voice eerily calm. "He cut me open and took my left kidney. He gave it to Sofia Bianchi."
The line went completely dead.
For five agonizing seconds, the only sound was the terrifying, rhythmic rasp of Enzo’s breathing. It was the sound of a hurricane gathering off the coast.
Then came the deafening sound of shattering glass. Enzo had just put his fist through the bulletproof window of his office. He didn't care about the politics or the money. He was enraged because his property—the woman he had secretly claimed in his mind five years ago—had been damaged.
"Elena," Enzo said. His voice was suddenly sickeningly gentle. It was the voice of the Devil making a pact. "Keep breathing. I am coming."
"No," I countered immediately, my strategic mind overriding the pain. "I am in Dante's private hospital. He has three hundred armed men in a ten-mile radius. A frontal assault will start a war with the Commission. You will lose too many men."
"I don't give a fuck about the Commission," Enzo snarled.
"I do," I replied firmly. "In seven days, Dante is hosting the Syndicate Gala to solidify his alliance with my father. The security grid will be entirely focused on the perimeter. That is my window."
Enzo let out a dark, appreciative chuckle. He respected my mind. Dante only ever saw my body.
"Seven days," Enzo agreed, the violence simmering just beneath his words. "I will have my fleet in the Atlantic and my planes locking down Chicago airspace. We take you out, and we leave them nothing."
"If you do this, the American Mafia will hunt you," I warned him. I owed him the truth.
Enzo scoffed, a deeply arrogant sound. "Let those Chicago street rats try to bite a Sicilian lion. They will choke on their own blood."
A strange, heavy warmth spread through my chest. For the first time in a decade, I felt safe. I let my tense muscles relax into the mattress. The sudden shift yanked at my stitches, and a muffled groan slipped past my lips.
"Don't move," Enzo ordered instantly, the raw panic bleeding through his ruthless facade. "Lie perfectly still, Elena. Do not agitate the wound."
The microscopic attention to my physical pain was a stark contrast to Dante leaving me to bleed.
"I need you to do one more thing," I said, catching my breath. "I need you to open a ghost account. I am draining Dante's offshore funds."
Enzo didn't ask why. He didn't question my authority. He immediately rattled off a string of numbers for a top-tier Swiss encrypted account.
Heavy, distinct footsteps approached my door. Leather soles.
"Someone is coming. I have to go," I whispered rapidly.
"Wait for me, my queen," Enzo murmured in flawless Italian.
I hit the end call button and shoved the black phone deep beneath the mattress. I adjusted my posture, smoothing the pain from my face, and stared blankly at the ceiling.
The door pushed open. Matteo walked in. He was holding a plastic cup of water, his shoulders slumped, and his eyes refusing to meet mine. He was the picture of pathetic, useless guilt.
I turned my head and looked at him. My eyes were completely dead. I didn't see Dante's friend anymore. I saw an enemy combatant.
Matteo walked to the bedside table and set the water down. His jaw worked, his mouth opening as if to offer a pathetic apology for watching me get butchered.
I didn't look at the water. I closed my eyes, cutting him out of my vision entirely.
"Get out."
