Elena Vitiello POV:
The bathroom was warm, smelling of expensive cedar soap and faint steam. The amber vanity lights cast a soft, hazy glow over the white marble.
I swallowed hard. I forced my legs to move. I walked into the bathroom and stopped in front of the massive double sink.
Dante stood right behind me. I looked at our reflection in the mirror. He looked like a dark storm cloud hovering over me.
He reached out. His large hands rested on my shoulders. His palms were hot against my skin.
I squeezed my eyes shut. My stomach tightened into a knot.
Slowly, carefully, Dante pushed the fabric of my shirt down. He bared my left shoulder, my collarbone, and the top of my chest.
The mirror reflected the brutal reality. Thick, angry red welts and uneven, raised skin covered my flesh. It looked like a monster had clawed me.
My father's voice echoed in my head. *A flawed product is useless.* A wave of intense shame crashed over me. I tried to turn away, to hide my ruined body from his sight.
Dante’s hands clamped down on my shoulders, holding me firmly in place. He did not let me hide.
He squeezed a dollop of the silver cream onto his fingertips. The ointment was ice cold.
When his fingers made contact with my ruined skin, I gasped.
Dante didn't flinch. He didn't look away in disgust. He began to rub the ointment into my scars using slow, firm, circular motions.
His rough calluses dragged against the hyper-sensitive new skin. A violent shiver racked my spine. My knees felt weak.
The bathroom was completely silent except for our breathing. His chest rose and fell against my back.
I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror. Dante was staring at my scars with a look of absolute reverence. He was touching me like I was the most precious thing in the world.
He finished rubbing in the cream. But he didn't pull his hands away.
His fingertips traced the longest, ugliest scar that ran down my shoulder blade.
Then, Dante lowered his head. I felt his hot breath against my neck.
He pressed his lips directly against the thickest part of the scar. His kiss was firm, burning hot, and completely unapologetic.
A choked sob caught in my throat. The walls I had built around my heart cracked violently. He wasn't just accepting my flaws; he was worshipping them.
Dante lifted his head. He looked at me in the mirror. His green eyes were blazing. His hands slid from my shoulders down to my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest.
Just as his mouth parted to speak, a harsh, electronic ringing shattered the quiet.
The black satellite phone on the bedroom nightstand vibrated violently against the wood.
The spell broke. I gasped, stepping out of his grip, hurriedly pulling my shirt back up over my shoulder.
Dante cursed viciously under his breath. The tenderness vanished from his face, replaced by cold, murderous annoyance. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the bathroom to answer the phone.
I leaned against the marble sink, trying to slow my racing heart.
A minute later, Dante walked back to the doorway. He held the phone in his hand. The muscles in his jaw were ticking rapidly.
"News from Chicago. Luca and Matteo saved the Underboss's life in a gang shootout last night. They've regained their titles as Lieutenants."
