Elena Vitiello POV
The family doctor, Dr. Russo-an old man who had seen more bullet holes than surgical incisions-tied off the stitch with a trembling hand.
"It's going to leave a scar, Mrs. Moretti," he murmured, keeping his eyes averted.
"I know," I said.
I sat on the edge of the bathtub in the master suite.
My dress, ruined by blood and the weight of Dante's contempt, lay in a heap on the floor.
The divorce papers sat on the marble counter.
I had already signed them.
The ink had long since dried.
My hand hadn't shaken once.
Dr. Russo packed his bag quickly.
He didn't ask how it happened.
In our world, you didn't ask questions unless you wanted to be part of the answer.
When he left, the silence of the penthouse pressed in on me.
I touched the bandage on my collarbone.
Dante's mark.
He had compared me to my mother.
Weak.
I closed my eyes, and the memory clawed its way up.
I was only twelve.
It was the day my father, Antonio Vitiello, brought Sofia home.
She was the same age as me, holding the hand of a woman who looked like a faded movie star.
My father had looked at my mother-his loyal wife of fifteen years-and told her that Sofia was his daughter, and that she would live with us.
My mother didn't scream.
She didn't fight.
She just shrank.
Two weeks later, I found her broken body on the patio stones below her balcony.
Everyone said she jumped.
Everyone said she was too fragile for this life.
Dante had been at the funeral.
He was twenty then, already a made man, already dangerous.
He had taken my hand and promised to protect me.
Liar.
My phone buzzed on the counter, snapping me back to the present.
I picked it up.
It was an encrypted message.
Sender: Unknown.
Attached was a video file.
I hesitated.
My finger hovered over the screen.
I pressed play.
The footage was grainy, taken from a security camera that must have been hidden in a vent.
The timestamp was from ten years ago.
The day my mother died.
I stopped breathing.
On the screen, two figures stood on the balcony of my childhood home.
My mother.
And Sofia.
Sofia was twelve, but her face was twisted with a malice far too old for a child.
I turned the volume up.
"He doesn't want you," Sofia's voice was tinny but clear. "He loves me. He loves my mother. You're just in the way."
My mother was crying, backing away toward the railing.
"Go inside, Sofia."
"Make me."
Sofia stepped forward.
She shoved my mother.
It wasn't a slip.
It wasn't an accident.
It was a hard, calculated shove.
My mother tipped backward over the low railing.
She didn't even scream.
The video cut to black for a second, then switched to a new angle.
My father's office, an hour later.
Antonio was sitting at his desk, head in his hands.
Dante stood in front of him.
Dante looked young, but his eyes held the same cold flint they did tonight.
"The girl pushed her," Dante said.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"I know," my father wept. "Sofia... she didn't mean it."
"She meant it," Dante said flatly. "But a scandal like this... a bastard child killing the legitimate wife? It makes you look weak, Antonio. It makes the Family look chaotic."
"What do I do?"
"We bury it," Dante said. "We say she jumped. We pay off the coroner. Sofia stays. Elena never knows."
"And Elena?"
"I'll take her," Dante said, adjusting his suit jacket. "When she's of age. I'll marry her. That secures your territory for my father, and it keeps her mouth shut. She'll be grateful for the protection."
The video ended.
I stared at the black screen.
The pain in my collarbone vanished.
It was replaced by a cold, hollow void in the center of my chest.
My mother didn't commit suicide.
My sister murdered her.
My father covered it up.
And my husband... my husband had brokered the deal over her still-warm body.
He hadn't married me for power.
He hadn't even married me for lust.
He had married me to hide a body.
I looked at the divorce papers.
They weren't enough.
Leaving wasn't enough.
I stood up.
I walked to the closet and pulled out a black dress.
It was Sofia's birthday today.
Dante was throwing her a party at the main compound.
I wasn't invited.
I zipped the dress up over my bandages.
I wasn't going to cry.
Tonight, I was going to burn them all alive.
