Elena POV
The elevator at Moretti Holdings was a glass cage that offered a panoramic view of the city. I refused to look at it. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on the digital display, watching the floor numbers tick upward.
I was on my lunch break, heading toward an appointment with a realtor. A secret appointment.
The doors slid open on the executive floor, and the air instantly grew heavier. Dante stepped in, with Sofia clinging to his side like a decorative accessory. She was giggling, her hand staking a claim on his bicep. When she looked up and saw me, her smile widened.
It was a predator's baring of teeth disguised as a kitten's grin.
"Elena!" she chirped. "Going down?"
"Yes," I said.
Dante looked at me. His dark gaze slid over me, heavy with irritation, as if my mere existence was an interruption to his schedule. He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind Sofia's ear.
"Your hair is messy," he murmured.
"You messed it up," she whispered back, pitching her voice perfectly so I wouldn't miss a word.
"Stop whining," he said, but his tone was playful. He never played with me.
"Join us for lunch," Dante said.
It wasn't an invitation. It was a command.
"I can't," I said. "I have business."
His eyes narrowed into slits. "What business?"
"Personal business."
"You don't have personal business," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Cancel it."
Before I could respond, the elevator shuddered violently. The overhead lights flickered and died, plunging us into a sudden, heavy silence before the emergency red glare bathed the small space.
"Oh god," Sofia gasped. "I can't breathe. It's too tight in here."
She grabbed Dante's lapels. "It's okay," he soothed. "I'm here."
He pulled her into his arms, rubbing circles into her back and whispering reassurances I couldn't distinguish over the pounding of my own heart.
I pressed myself into the corner, fighting the familiar constriction in my chest. I was the one with the diagnosis. I was the one whose lungs actually seized in confined spaces. But I stood stone still.
I turned on my phone flashlight. The harsh beam hit them, cutting through the red gloom.
Dante glared at me.
"Turn that off," he hissed. "You're blinding her."
"The power is out, Dante," I said.
"She has a heart condition," he snapped. "She's fragile."
Fragile.
I was the one who had nearly died last week.
The elevator jolted again, and the doors groaned, prying open a few inches. We were level with the lobby floor, but the gap was barely wide enough to squeeze through.
Veins bulged in Dante's neck as he pried the doors apart with his bare hands. He shoved Sofia through the gap first.
"Go," he told her. "Get to the clinic. Get checked out."
She scrambled out, looking back with wide, fake-terrified eyes. Dante followed her immediately. He stepped out. He started to walk away.
The doors began to slide shut again.
He didn't look back. He didn't reach for a hand that was waiting to be taken. He left me alone in the dark metal box.
Panic surged, cold and sharp. I jammed my foot in the door. The rubber seal pinched my ankle, grinding against the bone, but I forced the doors back with a grunt of effort.
I squeezed out into the lobby.
I watched Dante's retreating back as he rushed Sofia toward the exit. He was carrying her now. Like a bride.
I looked down at my phone. The screen was cracked—a spiderweb of glass from where I had banged it against the wall in my struggle.
Ignoring the throb in my ankle, I walked out the side exit and took a taxi to the apartment viewing.
It was small. It smelled sharply of bleach. It was perfect.
I went back to the office at 5 PM. Dante was sitting at my desk.
He had a small box of pastries. "Cannoli," he said. "From lunch."
The box was open, revealing the ravaged remains. Half-eaten. Leftovers.
"Sofia couldn't finish them," he said. "I thought you'd want them."
He placed the box on my keyboard.
"I need you to print the quarterly reports," he said.
"I can't," I said.
"Why?"
"I'm printing something else."
The printer whirred to life beside us. A single sheet of paper slid into the tray. I picked it up and handed it to him.
"What is this?" he asked.
"My resignation," I said.
He laughed. A short, sharp bark of disbelief. "You can't resign, Elena. You belong to the Family."
"I resign from the legitimate company," I said, my voice steady. "I resign from being your secretary. And I certainly resign from eating her leftovers."
I picked up the pastry box and dropped it into the trash can next to my desk with a final, dull thud.
"You're fired," I whispered to the empty air, the words tasting like freedom as I walked away.
