Elena POV
I spent the next three days packing, moving through the motions with a cold, mechanical efficiency.
I didn't pack everything.
I took only the clothes I had bought with my own money, my sketchbooks, and the few pieces of jewelry my mother had left me before she jumped off the balcony.
Everything else remained.
I left the diamond necklaces Dante had given me as apology gifts for his affairs. They were beautiful, heavy things, weighed down by lies.
I left the couture gowns he liked to see me in at galas.
I moved my things into the guest room at the far end of the East Wing.
Dante didn't stop me.
He didn't come home for three nights.
I knew where he was.
He was with her.
Sofia Rossi.
Sunday arrived, bringing with it the heavy dread of obligation.
The mandatory Family Dinner at the main Vitiello Estate.
Attendance was not optional.
I dressed in a simple black dress featuring a high neck and long sleeves. Standing before the mirror, the reflection staring back wasn't a wife.
I looked like a widow.
When I arrived at the estate, the driveway was full of armored SUVs, shining like black beetles under the afternoon sun.
I walked into the main hall.
The air was thick, heavy with the cloying scent of cigars and roasted meat. It smelled like excess. Like power.
My father was there, the Greco Capo, drinking with Dante's uncles.
He saw me and sneered, his lip curling in distaste.
"Where is your husband?" he asked. "A wife should arrive with her husband."
"Ask him," I said, my voice devoid of emotion as I walked past him.
I entered the dining room.
Dante was already there.
He was sitting at the head of the table, a dark king on his throne.
Sofia was standing next to him, her hand resting casually on his shoulder.
She was wearing a red dress that was too tight and cut too low for a family dinner. It was a scream for attention in a room full of whispers.
She looked vibrant, alive, and victorious.
She was the daughter of a low-level associate, yet tonight she paraded around like the Queen.
"Elena!" Sofia chirped when she saw me, her voice saccharine sweet. "We were just wondering if you were going to show up. Dante said you were feeling... unstable."
The table went quiet.
The Capos, the soldiers, the wives—they all looked at me.
Some with pity, most with scorn.
Dante didn't look at me. He simply took a sip of his wine, his profile carved from stone.
"I'm fine," I said.
I took my seat at the other end of the table, as far from Dante as possible.
Dinner was a torture session.
Sofia laughed loudly at Dante's jokes.
She cut his meat for him.
She whispered in his ear, her hand lingering on his neck.
In my past life, I would have made a scene.
I would have thrown my wine glass.
I would have cried and demanded Dante respect me.
That's what they expected.
The "Bratty Princess."
But I just ate my soup.
I focused on the texture of the bread.
I focused on the plan forming in my head.
Paris.
I just needed to get to Paris.
When the men moved to the smoking room and the women went to the parlor, I slipped away.
I walked down the quiet hallway to the Family Chapel.
It was the only place in this house that felt holy.
It was where the Old Don's ashes were kept in a jade urn on the altar.
He was the grandfather who had forced this marriage, yes, but he was also the only one who had ever told me I had talent.
I knelt before the altar.
I pulled out my rosary.
It was jade, matching the urn.
"I'm sorry, Grandfather," I whispered. "I can't keep your promise anymore."
I placed the rosary on top of the urn.
The heavy oak door creaked open behind me.
I didn't turn.
The sharp click of heels on the stone floor told me who it was.
"Praying for a miracle?" Sofia's voice echoed in the small space.
I stood up and turned to face her.
"Leave, Sofia."
"This is my chapel now," she said, walking closer. "Or it will be soon. Dante promised me."
"He promised a lot of things," I said.
"He hates you," she spat, her mask slipping to reveal the ugly jealousy underneath. "You know that, right? He calls you a shackle. A burden."
"I know," I said calmly.
My lack of reaction infuriated her.
She wanted the fight.
She wanted the drama she could use to cry into Dante's chest later.
She stepped up to the altar.
"You don't deserve to be here," she said. "You don't deserve to carry the Vitiello name."
She reached out and grabbed the jade urn.
"Don't touch that," I warned, my voice dropping an octave.
"Oops," she said.
She smiled, a cruel, twisted thing.
And then she threw the urn onto the stone floor.
The sound was sickening—a sharp crack followed by the hollow shattering of ceramic.
Jade shattered.
Grey ash exploded into the air, coating the pristine floor, the altar, and the hem of my dress.
The remains of the man who built this empire were reduced to dust under her heels.
I stared at the mess, frozen in horror.
Sofia didn't look horrified.
She looked excited.
With a manic gleam in her eyes, she reached up and ripped the strap of her own dress.
Her nails dug into her skin as she scratched her own chest, drawing bright red blood.
Then she opened her mouth and screamed.
"Help! Dante! Help me!"
She threw herself onto the floor, rolling in the ashes.
"She's crazy! She's destroying everything!"
The doors burst open.
Dante was the first one through.
He saw the shattered urn.
He saw the ashes.
He saw Sofia weeping on the floor, clutching her torn dress.
And he saw me, standing over them, silent and still.
Dante's face went pale, then red.
The vein in his forehead pulsed violently.
"Elena," he roared.
His voice shook the stained glass.
It wasn't a question.
It was a verdict.
