Elena Vitiello POV:
I pushed open the heavy iron door of the old Brooklyn apartment. The rusted hinges screamed in protest, a harsh screech that made me wince. Dust kicked up from the floorboards, catching in my throat and forcing a dry cough from my lungs.
Five years ago, I moved into this cramped space to accommodate Dante's need for a low profile. Now, it was just a tomb for my wasted youth.
I reached out in the dark and flipped the light switch. The dim yellow bulbs flickered twice before finally staying on, casting long, depressing shadows across the living room. The floor was littered with his things.
My eyes landed on the couch. Dante's favorite dark grey cashmere coat was draped over the armrest. The familiar, crisp scent of cedarwood cologne hit my nose instantly.
That scent used to make me feel safe. Now, it triggered a violent physical reaction. My stomach flipped over itself. I slapped a hand over my mouth and sprinted for the bathroom.
I gripped the edges of the porcelain sink and dry heaved. Nothing came up, but my abdominal muscles cramped painfully. I turned on the faucet and let the freezing tap water run over my pale hands, trying to wash away the overwhelming sense of humiliation clinging to my skin.
I looked up at the bathroom mirror. My eyes were bloodshot. I raised my hands and slapped my own cheeks hard, the sharp stinging pain forcing the redness back into my skin, forcing my brain to focus.
A loud, aggressive pounding on the front door shattered the quiet. The old security door rattled violently against its frame.
I walked out of the bathroom, my body tense, and peered through the peephole. Standing under the flickering hallway light was Marco, Dante's vice boss. He wore an expression of pure arrogance.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, my face an emotionless mask. Marco didn't even offer a greeting. He simply pushed his way past me into the narrow entryway, two massive bodyguards following close behind him.
Marco pulled a large black trash bag from his pocket, snapped it open, and started tossing Dante's personal items into it. He moved with blatant disrespect, sweeping expensive watches and leather belts into the plastic like they were garbage.
One of the bodyguards bumped the coffee table. A glass vase tipped over, shattering on the floor and spilling water everywhere. Marco didn't even blink.
I crossed my arms over my chest, digging my nails deep into my palms. I wanted to kick them out, but I knew the rules. In the mafia hierarchy, a woman without the protection of a boss was nothing more than a stray dog.
Marco walked over to the bookshelf. He reached out and grabbed the framed photograph of Dante and me from our first year together. He held it loosely, his fingers smudging the glass.
I stepped forward instantly, slamming my hand down on the edge of the frame. I locked eyes with Marco, my gaze freezing over.
"Do not touch what does not belong to him," I said, my voice low and dangerous.
Marco let out a scoff and released the frame. He looked me up and down, his eyes dripping with contempt. "Still think you are the untouchable future Donma, Elena?"
I didn't back down. I took another step forward, invading his space, letting the full weight of my status as the eldest Vitiello daughter radiate from my posture.
Marco hesitated, his arrogance faltering for a split second under my glare. He cleared his throat, looked away, and went back to snatching clothes off the couch.
From the bedroom, a loud clatter echoed. One of the bodyguards had knocked a jewelry box off the dresser. A plain silver band rolled across the floorboards, stopping right at Marco's feet.
Marco picked it up and tossed it in the air, catching it lazily. "The boss wants this place cleared out tonight. Needs to empty the walk-in closet at the private villa to make room for Sofia's things."
The name hit me like a physical blow to the chest. Sofia.
My pupils contracted violently. My heart literally stopped beating for a full second. Dante's white swan. The woman who had been in a coma for five years.
I kept my facial muscles entirely rigid. Inside the pockets of my trench coat, my hands balled into fists so tight my nails broke the skin.
"Is that so?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm, colder than the winter air outside.
Marco realized his mistake. His face paled slightly. He clamped his mouth shut, shoved the ring into his pocket, and started moving twice as fast.
Three minutes later, Marco was holding two bulging black trash bags. He practically sprinted toward the front door, eager to escape the suffocating tension in the room.
Before stepping out, he paused and looked back at me. "The boss ordered you to stay grounded here for thirty days. Until the heat dies down."
He didn't wait for a response. He slammed the security door shut behind him. The impact shook the walls, sending a fresh layer of dust falling from the doorframe.
I stood in the center of the wrecked living room. Half the apartment was empty now, the bare spaces mocking my five years of absolute devotion.
I looked down. The silver band had fallen out of Marco's pocket. It sat on the dusty floor. It was the ring I had saved up for months to buy Dante for his birthday.
The cold metal against the floorboards snapped my mind into sharp clarity. I bent down, picked up the ring, walked straight to the trash can, and dropped it in.
I walked over to the window and yanked the heavy curtains open. I stared out at the broken streets of Brooklyn, my eyes hardening into something sharp and lethal.
"Thirty days of grounding? Dante, you will pay for your arrogance today."
