Elena Vitiello POV:
The heavy bulletproof glass doors slid apart with a loud, mechanical hiss, the pressurized air escaping into the corridor.
I stood a few feet back from the threshold, my posture rigid. The high neck of my black cashmere sweater hid the rapid pulse beating against my collarbone. I kept my face entirely blank, an unreadable mask of calm.
Luca saw the doors open and immediately shifted his weight, his foot lifting to step inside my private wing. He did not make it. My father shot him a single, dead-eyed glare that nailed his boots to the carpet. The invisible line of our hierarchy was drawn in the air, and Luca finally realized he could not cross it.
Domenico Vitiello stepped over the threshold, his presence sucking the oxygen out of the room. He stopped in front of me, his tall frame towering over mine. He looked down, his eyes scanning my face, checking for signs of weakness or panic.
His gaze drifted downward and stopped at the black garbage bag tied up by my feet. The sharp edge of the wooden bear poked against the plastic. My father's eyes narrowed slightly. He saw the evidence of a purge.
"Why did you revoke their West Wing access?" Domenico's voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth. It was an interrogation.
Behind him, I heard Luca swallow hard. The sound was loud in the quiet hallway. Luca's heart was in his throat, terrified I would tell my father about the gun.
I looked straight into my father's eyes. I did not blink. "The security system required a routine reset and upgrade. I cleared the cache." My voice was perfectly flat, a lie delivered with the absolute conviction I learned from watching him negotiate at the table.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Luca's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. A microscopic sigh of relief escaped his lips. My stomach churned with a cold sneer. He was so stupid he actually thought I was protecting him.
Domenico did not break eye contact with me. The air grew thick and suffocating. He knew I was lying. A man who survived thirty years in the Cosa Nostra could smell a cover-up from a mile away.
Without breaking his gaze on me, Domenico suddenly twisted his torso and swung his right arm backward.
The back of his hand collided with Luca's face with a sickening, wet crack.
The force of the blow snapped Luca's head to the side. He stumbled, his heavy boots scraping against the floor to keep his balance. Bright red blood instantly welled up at the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin.
Matteo flinched, taking a fast half-step backward. He kept his hands glued to his sides, absolutely terrified to intervene.
"Do not forget who pulled you out of the mud," Domenico snarled at Luca, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. He pointed a thick finger at Luca's bleeding face. "If my daughter is unhappy, you have failed your only purpose. And dogs that fail their purpose get put down."
Luca kept his head turned, his eyes fixed on the floor. The blood dripped onto the expensive Persian rug, leaving dark stains. "Yes, Boss," he mumbled, his voice thick with humiliation and fear.
I watched the blood fall. I felt nothing. The physical violence did not satisfy me. A slap was just skin deep. I wanted to destroy his entire foundation.
Domenico turned his attention back to me. The murderous aura receded slightly, replaced by the stern expectation of a mafia patriarch.
"The rumors of your friction with your detail have already reached the ears of the Capos," Domenico said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Weakness breeds ambition in the ranks. You will attend the family gathering at the downtown social club tonight."
He stepped closer, his voice hardening. "You will walk in there looking like a true Vitiello. You will crush these pathetic whispers."
I gave him a single, sharp nod. "I will be there on time. And I will handle my personal items." I placed a heavy emphasis on the word items.
Domenico analyzed my face for a moment longer. He found what he was looking for. He reached out and gave my shoulder a firm, heavy pat. It was a seal of approval.
He turned around to leave. As he passed the doorway, he paused and glanced down at the black plastic bag one last time. "Trash should indeed be thrown out," he muttered.
He walked away, his bodyguards falling into step behind him. Their heavy footsteps faded down the hall.
The oppressive weight in the air lifted. Luca wiped the back of his hand across his bloody mouth. He looked at me, his eyes pleading. He took a step forward, his hand reaching out. "Elena, let me explain what happened earlier—"
I took a slow step backward, retreating entirely into my room. I placed my hand on the wall panel. I looked at him. I did not look at him with anger or hatred. I looked at him the way I looked at a dead rat on the street.
Luca froze, the rejection in my eyes stabbing him right in the chest. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
I slammed my palm against the close button. The bulletproof doors rushed together, sealing shut with a heavy mechanical thud right in his face.
Through the thick glass, I saw Luca standing next to the garbage bag, his bloody reflection staring back at him. His lips moved, and I could read the exact words forming on his mouth.
"What the hell does she want?!"
