Elara POV:
The footage was irrefutable. It showed Sienna, clear as day, grabbing my hand, forcing it onto the wheelchair's controls before shoving the chair herself. It was the proof I needed-not for him, but for myself. A confirmation that I wasn't losing my mind.
Dante's twenty-fifth birthday was in two days. The day his promise to me would officially expire. I copied the video file onto a USB drive, slipped it into a plain envelope, and dispatched a courier to his Consigliere. The note attached was simple: "A birthday gift for the Underboss."
The next evening was the annual Moretti-funded charity gala. I was required to be there, a holdover from my father's legacy, a 'charity case' they paraded around once a year. I stood by the bar, trying to dissolve into the background, when Sienna glided over, draped in diamonds and clinging to Dante's arm. To everyone else, she was the star of the show-the future Mafia Queen.
"Look at you," she sneered, her voice a venomous whisper meant only for me. "Still lurking in the shadows. You should really go be with your mother. It would be a shame for her to die alone."
White-hot rage exploded behind my eyes. The casual cruelty, the mention of my mother... it was too much.
I didn't think. I just reacted. I shoved her, hard.
Sienna, ever the performer, stumbled backward with a theatrical gasp, her heel catching on the edge of the low stage behind her. She tumbled off it, landing in a heap on the floor. A small cut opened on her forehead, a perfect, dramatic trickle of blood.
The room went silent.
Dante, who had been speaking with his father, the Don himself, turned. He saw Sienna on the floor and me standing over her, my hands still clenched into fists. His expression shuttered, becoming a mask of cold fury.
He walked over, ignoring Sienna completely, his eyes locked on mine.
"You're going to pay for that," he promised, his voice lethally calm.
Two of his Soldiers materialized at my elbows, their grips like iron. They started to drag me from the ballroom, away from the hundreds of staring eyes.
We didn't go to a hospital or a police station. They took me to a place I'd only heard whispers about-a disused Moretti warehouse on the river, a place for interrogations and settling scores.
They threw me into the center of the vast, empty space. The heavy steel door clanged shut behind them, leaving me alone.
A moment later, it opened again. Dante stepped inside. In his hand, he held a coiled leather whip.
He let the end of it unspool, the leather tail slithering across the dusty concrete floor as he walked toward me. He stopped a few feet away, his eyes voids, utterly devoid of emotion.
"I warned you," he said.
Then he raised the whip.
