Elena Rossi POV
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and stale neglect.
Dante had visited exactly once.
He stayed for ten minutes.
He spent nine of them on his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen, a soft, indulgent smile playing on his lips.
It was the same smile he used to give me when I burned the toast.
"Is she okay?" I asked, my voice flat.
He didn't bother to look up. "Mia is fragile, Elena. The stress isn't good for the procedure. You need to be more careful."
"I have a broken arm and a concussion, Dante."
"And your father has leukemia," he countered, finally locking his phone and sliding it into his pocket. "Priorities."
He left before the nurse could even change my IV.
I was discharged three days later.
It was my birthday.
I didn't expect him to remember.
But when I walked into the Penthouse, the lights were dimmed. Soft jazz played from the hidden speakers.
Dante stood by the fireplace, holding a glass of scotch.
"Happy Birthday," he said.
For a second, just a fraction of a second, my heart stuttered.
Then I saw her.
Mia sat on the velvet sofa.
She was wearing white.
It was a white lace dress that looked disturbingly like the one I had worn to my rehearsal dinner five years ago.
"I told Dante we couldn't let you celebrate alone," Mia chirped, standing up. She twirled slowly, showing off the fabric. "Do you like it? Dante bought it for me. He said white symbolizes purity."
The irony tasted like bile rising in my throat.
"It's lovely," I said, walking past them toward the kitchen.
"Dante promised to teach me to dance," Mia said, grabbing his hand possessively. "For the gala next week. Since I'm the guest of honor."
Dante looked at me, his expression unreadable. "Just one song, Elena. Then we'll cut the cake."
I leaned against the marble island, clutching my cast to steady myself.
"Go ahead."
Dante placed his hand on Mia's waist.
He pulled her close. Too close for a dance lesson.
They moved to the rhythm. Mia rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes finding mine over the fabric of his suit.
She smirked.
It wasn't a subtle victory. It was a declaration of war.
Dante's chin rested on top of her head. He closed his eyes, swaying.
He looked peaceful.
He looked like a man in love.
The staff stood in the shadows of the hallway. The maids, the guards. I saw them exchanging pitying glances.
They knew.
The Underboss had a new queen. The old one was just waiting to be discarded.
I looked at the cake on the counter.
*Happy Birthday Elena.*
The frosting was already melting under the warm recessed lights.
I didn't say a word.
I turned around and walked to the elevator.
The music swelled. Dante spun Mia, her laughter ringing out like breaking glass.
Neither of them noticed I was leaving.
I pressed the button for the lobby.
As the metal doors slid shut, cutting off the sight of my husband holding another woman, I whispered to the empty car.
"There won't be a next time."
