Elena Vitiello POV:
The interior of the Rolls Royce was a fortress of silence.
The thick armor plating and double-paned glass completely severed us from the violent storm raging outside. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic hum of the tires gliding over the wet pavement.
I sat leaning against the plush leather seat, staring out the window. The neon lights of the city blurred into streaks of color against the glass.
My right hand rested in my lap. My thumb unconsciously traced the heavy, cold facets of the pigeon-blood ruby on my left ring finger. The stone felt like an anchor, grounding me in this new reality.
Dante sat beside me in the dark. I could feel the weight of his stare. He was watching my profile intently, searching for a tremor in my lip, a tear in my eye—any sign that I was mourning the pathetic display we had just left in the street.
He noticed the slight tension in my shoulders. I was holding myself stiffly, a lingering physical defense from the confrontation.
Dante didn't ask if I was okay. He simply shifted, shrugging off his heavy, black cashmere trench coat.
He leaned across the seat and draped the massive coat over my shoulders. He pulled the lapels tight across my chest, completely covering my bare back and the scarred skin the dress exposed.
The coat was heavy. It was radiating his body heat and smelled strongly of sharp cedar and rich tobacco.
The gesture was possessive, but it carried an undeniable, overwhelming gentleness. The instant the warmth enveloped me, the lingering chill in my bones evaporated.
I turned my head. I looked into Dante’s deep, black eyes. The tension drained out of my spine, and I finally relaxed.
Dante reached out, wrapping his thick arm around my waist, and pulled me across the seat.
I didn't resist. I curled into his side, resting my cheek against his solid chest. I listened to the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat. It was the safest place I had ever been.
His long fingers slid into my hair, gently massaging my scalp, wordlessly soothing the adrenaline out of my system.
We drove in silence for a few minutes.
When Dante finally spoke, his voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against my ear.
"Say the word," he murmured, his tone entirely casual but dripping with lethal intent. "Just nod your head, Elena. They disappear tonight."
He wasn't joking. He was entirely willing to start a war with Chicago just to erase my bad memories.
"I'll have my men cut their heads off," he continued smoothly. "We'll put them in a nice wooden box and mail them back to the Underboss as a wedding favor."
When I heard the sheer brutality of the offer, I didn't flinch. Instead, a genuine, relieved smile touched my lips.
I lifted my head from his chest. I reached up, pressing my palm against his tense, sharp jawline.
I slowly shook my head.
Dante frowned. A flash of dark confusion crossed his eyes. He thought I was showing mercy. He thought I still cared enough to spare their lives.
I saw the assumption in his eyes, and my smile twisted into a cold, merciless smirk.
"Death is too cheap for them, Dante," I said, my voice steady and hard. "If you kill them now, they become martyrs. Chicago will throw them a funeral, and their suffering ends in a second."
I let my thumb trace his lower lip. My eyes burned with the cold fire of a queen executing her own justice.
"I don't want them dead. I want them to live like rats in the gutter. I want them to wake up every single day, look at their broken bodies, and know they are nothing."
I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a vicious whisper. "I want them to watch me rise. I want them to choke on their regret for the rest of their miserable lives."
Dante stared at me. The confusion in his eyes was instantly incinerated by a blaze of fanatic, consuming obsession.
He loved my darkness. He worshipped the ruthless logic that matched his own.
He ducked his head, pressing his lips firmly against my forehead in a kiss that felt like a religious vow.
"As you wish, my Queen. Let them watch from the gutter."
