Elena POV
The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting long, slanted shadows across the hardwood floor of my bedroom.
From the top shelf of the closet, I pulled down my black canvas go-bag, tossed it onto the mattress and began to pack.
I only took the essentials.
Tactical gear, forged passports, thick stacks of untraceable currency, and a few changes of nondescript clothes.
I left behind the silk gowns and designer dresses Dante had bought me for the syndicate banquets.
I was halfway through folding a dark sweater when the sound of a key turning in the heavy lock of the front door echoed through the apartment.
A moment later, Dante walked into the bedroom.
He wore the same black dress shirt from the banquet, its fabric now deeply creased, the top two buttons undone.
The heavy, cloying scent of crushed roses clung to his clothes and seemed to seep from his skin.
It was Mia's signature perfume.
My hands stilled, my fingers digging into the wool.
Dante had always claimed he despised perfume.
Years ago, he had complained so bitterly about the scent of my expensive collection that I had thrown every single bottle into the trash.
I had spent the last eight years smelling of nothing but unscented soap, just to please him.
He had not complained about the scent for eight years, yet he let Mia's roses soak into the very collar of his shirt. That small, specific knowledge felt like a rusty nail being slowly hammered into the space between my eyebrows.
Dante paused in the doorway when he saw the open bag on the bed.
He shifted his weight, offering a rare, unprompted excuse.
"Mia took too long to sober up last night," he muttered, his gaze fixed on a point just over my shoulder. "I got a hotel room alone."
It was the first time in three years he had bothered to offer an excuse for his absence.
I simply nodded, adhering to our silent, syndicate code of Omertà.
I said nothing.
He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to the canvas bag.
"Are you packing for a syndicate run?" he asked.
"You could say that," I replied, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth to keep the words from trembling.
Dante let out a visible breath of relief.
His posture relaxed, the rigid tension leaving his broad shoulders.
"I have business today," he stated, casting a quick glance at his luxury watch. "I am just grabbing something. I will not be home for lunch."
Without looking up from my packing, I smoothed out the sweater and tucked it inside the bag.
"Alright."
I had originally planned to formally sever our ties over lunch today.
I had wanted to look him in the eye and end our eight-year relationship with the dignity it deserved.
He had just killed that final opportunity.
Turning on his heel, Dante walked briskly toward his private study.
A moment later, he emerged holding a small, red velvet gift bag.
He snatched his leather jacket from the hook by the front door and rushed out without a backward glance.
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him.
The force of the impact rattled the walls.
The framed photo that had hung on the back of that door for eight long years finally gave way.
It hit the hardwood floor with a brittle crack, shattering glass across the entryway.
I walked slowly out of the bedroom and stared down at the ruined frame.
It held a photo of our very first Family initiation celebration.
In the picture, we were both smiling, our hands tightly clasped together; his knuckles were bruised, but his eyes were full of an untamed fire.
I remembered Dante pulling me into a dark, rain-slicked alley that night, swearing a blood oath to always protect me and to celebrate our survival together, every single year.
Ever since Mia had become his protégée, those sacred vows had turned to ash.
In the apartment's dead air, only the rhythmic, hollow ticking of the wall clock marked the passage of time.
I stood in the silence for a long time, feeling it settle in my bones.
Then, I went to the kitchen, grabbed a broom, and meticulously swept up the broken shards of glass.
I reached down and picked up the photograph.
I took one last look at the naive, smiling girl I used to be, and then I threw the photo into the trash.
I stared at the garbage can for a long moment, the shattered glass glinting like scattered diamonds under the dim light.
And I realized I felt nothing at all.
