The overhead fluorescent strips hummed with a frequency that drilled straight into my temples, the light unflattering and harsh as I stared at my reflection in the grime-streaked mirror.
I held the needle steady, my hands trembling only slightly as I forced the tip through the skin of my own forehead.
I didn't have insurance.
And I couldn't use the Moretti family doctor.
That privilege was reserved for the family. Not the mistress.
So, I stitched the wound Dante gave me with a sewing kit I had purchased from a 24-hour pharmacy.
Each tug of the thread was a sharp, stinging reminder of who I was now.
I wasn't the cherished lover.
I was the collateral damage.
The metallic tang of blood in my mouth triggered a memory, pulling my mind back to the Fulton Fish Market, three years ago.
The air had smelled of brine and gutting knives back then, a stark contrast to the scent of Italian silk and gunpowder that always followed Dante Moretti.
He had walked through the blood and slime of the market floor in a three-thousand-dollar suit just to ask me my name.
He didn't care about the filth.
He only saw me.
I remembered the day the rival gang firebombed the stalls.
The explosion had thrown us to the ground, the world turning into fire and noise.
Dante had covered my body with his own, shielding me from the shrapnel and the heat.
His back had been burned, his suit ruined, but he had looked down at me with a smile that eclipsed the sun.
"A life for a life, Elena," he had whispered, wiping soot from my cheek. "You owe me. Forever."
I severed the thread with my teeth, the taste of iron coating my tongue.
The man who took a bomb for me was dead.
The man who had just shoved me into a marble fireplace was alive and well, probably holding Sofia's hand in the VIP suite upstairs.
I walked out of the bathroom, clutching my side where the cold from the industrial freezer still ached in my bones.
Dante was waiting in the corridor.
He looked impeccable, not a hair out of place, untouched by the chaos he had orchestrated.
He saw the fresh bandage on my head, and for a second, his mask slipped.
Regret flashed in his eyes, but he blinked it away instantly, replacing it with a wall of ice.
"You shouldn't have touched her," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
I laughed, a dry, humorless sound that scraped my throat.
"I touched her wrist, Dante. You cracked my skull."
"She is under a lot of stress," he said, stepping closer, closing the distance between us until I could smell his cologne.
"The stress affects the milk. It affects the heir. You know the rules."
"The Plan," I said, mocking the word he used to justify every betrayal.
"Is shoving me part of the Plan too?"
He grabbed my shoulders, his grip tight, possessive.
"Don't do this, Elena. Don't make me the villain."
"You are already the villain," I whispered.
He pulled me against him, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
"It's only you," he breathed against my skin. "It's always been you. Just wait a little longer."
I stood rigid in his arms.
His body heat used to be my sanctuary.
Now, it felt like a cage.
"Soon, it will just be us," he promised, pulling back to look me in the eyes.
He brushed his thumb over the bandage on my forehead, a tender gesture that felt like a lie.
"I have to go back to her. She's hysterical."
"Of course," I said, stepping out of his reach.
"Go to your wife."
He hesitated, looking at me as if he wanted to say more, as if words could fix the hole in my head or the hole in my heart.
"I'll send a guard to drive you home," he said finally.
He turned and walked away, heading toward the elevators that led to the VIP floor.
He didn't look back.
He never looked back anymore.
I watched him go, feeling the phantom weight of his body shielding me from a bomb, and realized that was the true tragedy.
He had saved my life back then only to destroy it slowly now.
"I don't believe in your code anymore, Dante," I whispered to the empty hallway.
I walked toward the exit, leaving the hospital-and the man who broke me-behind.
