Elena Rossi POV:
A sharp, mocking laugh echoed through the receiver. Isabella Vitiello’s thick Italian accent dripped with generations of old-money arrogance.
"So," Isabella sneered, her voice staticky over the payphone line. "The little slum rat has finally realized she doesn't belong in a palace. I wondered how long it would take for you to accept what you are."
I stared blankly through the scratched plexiglass of the phone booth. The rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the neon lights of the Manhattan skyline. Her insults meant nothing to me. They were just words. I had built my life around a man who had just dismantled it with a single phone call. Isabella's venom was entirely irrelevant.
"Fifty million," I said, my tone completely flat.
The line went dead silent.
"Excuse me?" Isabella finally hissed, her amusement vanishing.
"Fifty million dollars. Untraceable. In exchange, I disappear before the wedding."
I could hear her sharp intake of breath. She was furious, but she was also a pragmatist. Dante’s marriage to Sofia was the cornerstone of a massive syndicate alliance. If the current mistress caused a public scandal, it could cost the Vitiello family billions in disrupted trade routes, not to mention the bloodshed.
"Tomorrow. Two o'clock. The private cafe on Fifth Avenue," Isabella snapped coldly. "Don't be late."
The line clicked and went dead.
I hung up the heavy receiver and pushed open the folding door of the booth. I stepped back out into the freezing downpour. I didn't hail a cab. I didn't call for a driver. I walked the forty blocks back to the penthouse.
My teeth chattered, and my muscles ached with the biting cold. I needed this physical pain. When I was eight years old, locked out of my third foster home in the dead of winter, the cold had kept me awake. It had kept me alive. Right now, it was keeping my brain razor-sharp, overriding the urge to collapse and mourn a love that had never been real.
I bypassed the doorman and used my keycard for the private elevator. The doors slid shut, rocketing me up to the top floor.
When the doors parted, the motion-sensor lights flickered on, casting a sterile, blueish glow over the sprawling, custom-designed furniture. The penthouse was massive, immaculate, and utterly devoid of life.
I peeled off my dripping trench coat and dropped it right onto the center of the priceless Persian rug.
I walked straight to the master bathroom and turned the shower dial to the hottest setting. I didn't wait for it to warm up. I stepped under the spray fully dressed in my ruined clothes, letting the scalding water hit me.
I stripped off the wet garments and grabbed a loofah, scrubbing furiously at my forehead where Dante had kissed me. I scrubbed until my skin was raw and burning.
When I finally stepped out, the mirrors were completely fogged over. I wiped a circle away with the side of my hand. My eyes were bloodshot, staring back at me from a pale, exhausted face.
My gaze drifted down to my collarbone. Just below it sat a jagged, ugly scar. I had taken a bullet meant for Dante during a drive-by shooting in our second year together. I had bled out on the floor of a restaurant, gripping his hand, telling him to run. Looking at the raised, white tissue now, a bitter taste flooded my mouth.
I walked into the massive walk-in closet. I ignored the row of silk nightgowns Dante liked me to wear. I went to the very back, where an old cardboard box sat hidden behind designer shoe racks. I pulled out a faded, oversized cotton t-shirt I had bought at a thrift store years ago. I pulled it over my head. The rough fabric grounded me.
I walked into the living room and stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the glittering grid of the city. I looked around the room. The art, the crystal decanters, the velvet sofas. None of it was mine.
I walked over to the bar. I bypassed the bottles of Macallan and poured myself a simple glass of tap water.
My phone lit up on the marble counter. A text from Dante.
*Meetings running late. Sleep well, *mia luce*. Goodnight.*
I stared at the screen. *My light.* The hypocrisy made my stomach turn. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I usually sent back a paragraph, telling him I missed him, adding a red heart emoji.
I typed: *Goodnight.*
I hit send and tossed the phone onto the couch.
I went back into the bedroom and dropped to my knees. I reached under the massive king-sized bed and dragged out a battered duffel bag. It was the same bag I had moved in with seven years ago.
I unzipped it. I started moving methodically, pulling out my passport, my birth certificate, and a few basic toiletries. I didn't touch anything Dante had bought me.
Suddenly, the electronic keypad on the front door beeped. *Beep. Beep. Beep.*
My heart slammed against my ribs. I shoved the duffel bag violently back under the bed, grabbed a thick hardcover book from the nightstand, and threw myself onto the edge of the mattress, snapping the book open.
I held my breath, my muscles coiled tight.
The door didn't open. Heavy footsteps echoed out in the private hallway, followed by the crackle of a security radio. It was just the night patrol checking the perimeter.
I let out a slow, shuddering breath. I lowered the book and looked around the cavernous, silent room. My jaw set into a hard line.
"I won't stay another day in this gilded cage."
