Elena Vitiello POV:
I stood in the center of my bedroom, staring at the monitor. Luca's voice echoed through the speaker, demanding I open the door because the woman he chose over me was terrified. A wave of physical nausea hit the back of my throat. The sheer audacity of his words made my skin crawl.
I did not press the talk button to argue. I did not waste my breath screaming at him. I walked directly to the wall panel, gripped the thick power cord of the intercom system, and ripped it out of the socket.
A harsh burst of static hissed through the room, followed immediately by absolute, beautiful silence. I owned this space again.
On the monitor, Luca froze. He heard the static cut off. He stared at the camera, his coaxing smile dropping into a scowl of frustration. He slammed his open palm against the bulletproof glass. He was so used to me answering his calls, so used to my endless patience, that being ignored broke his brain.
Matteo stepped up beside him, his mouth moving rapidly. I could read his lips. He was mocking my temper, telling Luca that the princess was acting up again and refusing to listen to reason.
I turned my back on the screens. I walked to the far corner of the room where a massive glass display cabinet stood against the wall.
The shelves were lined with items I had collected over the past decade. Every single piece was a gift from Luca or Matteo. To anyone else, they were worthless trinkets, but I had treated them like holy relics.
I opened the glass door. I reached in and grabbed a crudely carved wooden bear. Luca bought it for me from a street vendor when he was eighteen. My fingers tightened around the rough wood. A sharp splinter pierced the skin of my palm, sending a tiny jolt of pain up my arm. The pain was good. It grounded me.
I turned and tossed the bear into a large black heavy-duty trash bag I kept for dry cleaning. It hit the bottom with a dull thud. That was the sound of a ten-year bond breaking.
Next was a cheap plastic music box. Then a low-grade crystal bracelet that turned my wrist green. Then a journal filled with Matteo's terrible jokes. I moved like a machine, my face blank, my heart pumping ice water. I swept every item off the shelves, tossing them into the plastic bag. I was purging the infection from my life.
Out in the hallway, the heavy thumping started. Luca was pounding his fists against the glass door. The muffled, rhythmic thuds vibrated through the floorboards. He was losing control of his temper.
I frowned. The noise was an unacceptable intrusion. I walked to my nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out a pair of Sony noise-canceling headphones. I slipped them over my ears and flicked the switch to maximum isolation. The pounding vanished. The world went completely mute.
I went back to the cabinet and finished the job. I did not stop until every shelf was bare, leaving nothing but cold glass and empty space.
I gathered the top of the black garbage bag and tied it into a tight, vicious knot. I dragged it across the marble floor and kicked it against the wall near the door, exactly where I put rotting food scraps.
I looked back at the monitor. Luca's knuckles were red and bruised from hitting the glass. He was pacing, his mouth moving aggressively as he complained to Matteo. Matteo crossed his arms and pointed down the hall, clearly suggesting they go find the head butler to fetch the master key. They still believed they had the right to force their way into my sanctuary.
Just as they turned to leave, a shadow fell over the far end of the corridor.
A man stepped into the light. The heavy, rhythmic strike of his leather shoes against the floor was visible even without sound.
Luca and Matteo froze instantly. Their hands dropped instinctively toward the holsters at the small of their backs. It was the survival reflex of street dogs.
The shadow receded, revealing Domenico Vitiello. The Underboss of Chicago. My father. He wore a pristine three-piece charcoal suit, his posture radiating absolute authority.
His eyes, sharp as a hawk, swept over the two men standing at the locked door.
Luca immediately pulled his hand away from his gun. He dropped his chin to his chest, bowing deeply. Matteo mirrored the movement, a visible sheen of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. They knew what true violence looked like.
Domenico walked up to the bulletproof glass. He glanced at the card reader, noting the blinking red light. He turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto Luca. His mouth moved in a slow, deliberate cadence. I knew exactly what he was asking. He was asking why his daughter's guards were locked out like stray dogs.
Luca stammered, his hands waving nervously. He was lying, trying to blame a system glitch to cover up the fact that he drew a weapon on me earlier.
My father let out a visible snort of disgust. He did not bother exposing the lie. Instead, he raised his right hand. The heavy gold family crest ring on his index finger caught the light. He tapped the ring against the bulletproof glass three times.
I felt the faint vibration through the floor. I reached up and pulled the headphones off my ears. I looked at the monitor, meeting my father's piercing eyes through the camera lens.
I took a breath, hit the intercom button, and spoke clearly into the microphone.
"System unlock."
