Elena POV
The invitation had been sitting on my nightstand for weeks, taunting me.
A ten-year high school reunion.
In my previous life, I would have burned it to ash.
I would have been too ashamed to show my face, knowing I was just the decorative wife of a man who despised me, a woman who had faded into the wallpaper of her own existence.
But tonight, I put on a dress that cost more than most people's cars.
It was midnight blue, spun from Italian silk, and it covered every inch of my scarred back.
I wasn't going to reconnect.
I was going to say goodbye.
The ballroom at the Pierre Hotel was filled with faces I barely recognized. They were older, softer, their lives written in the deepening lines around their eyes.
I stood by the bar, nursing a sparkling water, feeling like a ghost haunting my own life.
"Elena Greco?"
I turned.
It was Sarah and Mike.
They used to be the golden couple of our class. Now, Mike looked tired, his hairline receding, and Sarah looked bored with the weight of suburbia.
"It's Vitiello now," I corrected automatically, then stopped myself.
"Right," Mike said, his eyes widening as the name registered. "The Vitiello family. We hear things, you know."
"Do you?" I asked, my tone flat.
"Yeah," Sarah chimed in, leaning closer, the scent of cheap Chardonnay on her breath. "Like how you're basically a legend."
I frowned. "A legend?"
"Come on," Mike laughed, taking a long sip of his beer. "Everyone knows the story. Sophomore year. The ambush behind the gym."
My blood ran cold.
I hadn't thought about that night in years.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, turning back to the bar.
"Don't be modest," Sarah said, stopping me. "We saw the security footage before the principal deleted it. You took a switchblade to the arm for Dante Vitiello. You dragged him into the janitor's closet and hid him until the coast was clear."
I gripped my glass until my knuckles turned white.
"And the lake trip," Mike added, shaking his head in disbelief. "Junior year winter retreat. Dante's gun fell through the ice. You dove in. We all thought you were dead. You came up blue, Elena. Shivering so hard you cracked a tooth. And you just handed him the gun and walked away."
I stared at them, breath trapped in my lungs.
I thought no one knew.
I thought I had been invisible in my devotion.
"Why are you bringing this up?" I asked, my voice tight.
"Because it's romantic," Sarah sighed, eyes dreamy. "You loved him even then. And now you're married to him. It's like a fairy tale."
A fairy tale.
If only they knew the ending was written in blood and ash.
"It wasn't romance," I said softly. "It was stupidity."
"Is that what you call saving my life?"
The voice came from behind me.
Deep. Dark. Terrifyingly familiar.
The air in the ballroom seemed to drop ten degrees.
I didn't turn around. I didn't have to.
I felt him.
Dante Vitiello.
Mike and Sarah went pale. They stammered excuses and vanished into the crowd like smoke.
I turned slowly.
Dante was wearing a black suit that fit him like a second skin.
He looked dangerous among the civilians. A wolf stalking through a pen of sheep.
He was staring at me with an expression I couldn't read—something between shock and ruin.
"You were at the lake," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"I was," I said.
"Sofia told me she found the gun," he said, his voice low. "She told me she hired the diver."
"Sofia says a lot of things," I replied.
"And the ambush?" He stepped closer, invading my personal space, consuming my oxygen. "My arm was broken. I was concussed. I remember someone dragging me. I remember the smell of vanilla and fear. I thought it was..."
"You thought it was her," I finished for him.
He looked at me, searching my face for a lie, desperate to find one.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" he asked. His voice was rough, like gravel grinding against glass.
"Would it have mattered?" I asked.
He opened his mouth to answer, but I cut him off.
"If you knew it was me who bled for you, Dante. If you knew it was me who almost froze to death. Would you have loved me?"
He stayed silent.
"No," I answered for him. "You would have just hated me for making you owe me something."
He flinched.
It was a small movement, but I saw it. A crack in the marble facade.
"We're leaving," he said, grabbing my elbow.
"I have my own car."
"Get in the car, Elena."
He dragged me out of the ballroom, through the lobby, and into the cool night air.
The valet brought his car around.
A sleek, black sports car.
He shoved me into the passenger seat.
He got in and slammed the door, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
He didn't start the engine.
He just gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
"Is it true?" he asked, staring out the windshield. "All of it?"
"Does it change anything?" I asked, my voice hollow. "Does it un-flay my back? Does it un-break the urn?"
He turned to look at me.
His eyes were storm clouds, swirling with a turbulence I had never seen directed at me.
"Elena..."
His phone rang.
The shrill sound shattered the moment into irreparable shards.
He looked at the screen.
Sofia.
He hesitated.
"Answer it," I said, looking away. "She probably broke a nail."
He pressed the button.
"Dante!" Sofia's voice screamed through the speakers. "Help! He's here! He has a knife!"
Dante's face transformed.
The confusion and regret vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, lethal focus of the Underboss.
"Where are you?" he barked.
"The Blue Velvet Lounge," she sobbed. "Please, Dante! He's going to kill me!"
The line went dead.
Dante started the car. The engine roared like a beast waking from slumber.
He didn't look at me.
He didn't ask if I wanted to get out.
He just peeled out of the driveway, tires screeching, racing to save the damsel in distress.
And I sat there, in the passenger seat, watching the city blur by, realizing that even the truth wasn't enough to break her hold on him.
