Dante Moretti POV
Dante gave the order, and the guards hoisted me up.
They hung me upside down in the lobby chandeliers.
Like a piece of meat in a butcher shop window.
"Leave her," he commanded, his voice echoing off the marble. "Let everyone see what happens to traitors."
Blood rushed to my head in a dizzying wave.
My stitched lips throbbed in time with my erratic pulse.
The world was inverted.
I saw shoes.
The polished shiny leather shoes of businessmen. The scuffed sneakers of tourists. And the sharp, red high heels of Carla.
They walked past me.
Some took photos, flashes blinding me.
Some averted their gaze, hurrying their children away in horror.
I closed my eyes and floated in the pain.
I waited for death.
Or Luca.
From the shadows of the mezzanine, a tall figure watched.
He didn't move.
He didn't intervene.
Not yet.
A Vendetta is a dish best served cold, and Luca Genovese was currently freezing the world over.
Three days later.
Dante sat in his office.
The silence in the hotel was heavy, almost suffocating.
He tried to focus on the ledger, but the numbers swam before his eyes.
The door opened.
His Consigliere, Marco, walked in.
He looked pale.
He held a thick envelope in a trembling hand.
"Boss," Marco said. "The package from Sicily arrived."
Dante frowned.
He had sent for the original marriage records and personal files from the old country weeks ago, trying to understand the black gap in his memory.
"Put it on the desk," Dante said.
Marco hesitated.
"You need to see this, Boss. Now."
Dante snatched the envelope and tore it open.
Photos spilled out.
Not the staged photos Carla had shown him.
Real photos.
Polaroids from five years ago.
Dante and Elena on a beach in Palermo.
Dante laughing-actually laughing-with his head thrown back, carefree and young.
Elena kissing his cheek, her eyes full of undeniable adoration.
And then, a document.
A medical report from the night of the car accident.
Patient: Elena Moretti. Injuries: Severe lacerations, smoke inhalation. Note: Patient refused treatment until husband was stabilized. Patient pulled husband from burning wreckage single-handedly.
Dante stared at the words.
She pulled him out.
She saved him.
He touched the photo of them on the beach.
A spark jumped in his brain.
Not a headache this time.
An earthquake.
The wall in his mind crumbled into dust.
Little Dove.
I promise to burn the world for you.
I love you, Dante.
I love you, Elena.
The memories flooded back like a tidal wave.
The smell of her hair like vanilla and rain.
The way she tasted.
The way she held his hand when he had nightmares.
And then, the horror.
The way he had tortured her.
The acid.
The press.
The needle.
"Oh god," he choked out.
He stood up, knocking his chair over with a crash.
"Elena."
He ran.
He sprinted out of the office, down the hall, to the elevator.
He slammed the button for the lobby.
The elevator felt too slow.
He needed to get to her.
He needed to cut the threads.
He needed to beg.
The doors finally opened.
He ran into the lobby.
It was empty.
The rope hung from the ceiling.
But the loop was empty.
There was a puddle of dried blood on the floor.
But Elena was gone.
"Where is she?!" Dante roared.
The staff cowered.
"We... we don't know, Boss," the concierge stammered. "The lights went out for a second, and when they came back on... she was gone."
Dante spun around.
He pulled out his phone with shaking hands.
He dialed her number.
It went straight to voicemail.
He dialed Carla.
"Where is she?" he screamed into the phone.
Carla sounded bored.
"Who cares? She probably crawled into a hole to die. Come home, baby. I bought new lingerie."
Dante hung up.
He looked at his phone.
A text message notification popped up.
It wasn't from Elena.
It was a forwarded message on Carla's phone that had synced to the family cloud.
It was from the maid.
Job done. Cut the brat's lip like you said. Elena is ruined. Mission accomplished.
Dante stared at the screen.
The phone slipped from his hand and shattered on the marble floor.
He fell to his knees in the spot where her blood had dried.
He touched the dark stain.
He was the Reaper.
But he had just reaped his own soul.
She was gone.
And he knew, with a terrifying certainty, that when she came back, she wouldn't be his Little Dove anymore.
She would be the storm.
