Chapter 8
Elena POV
Saturday morning felt different. The air in my parents' safe house tasted of stagnation, but at least it tasted safe.
It smelled like dust and freedom.
My phone, the one Dante knew, sat silent and ominous on the kitchen table. It had been vibrating incessantly since 11 PM the previous night.
Dante.
Dante.
Dante.
Seventy-two missed calls. Forty voice messages. I didn't listen to a single second of them.
My mother made breakfast in quiet solidarity. Eggs and toast. With a trembling hand, she stuck a single candle into the center of a slice of buttered toast.
"Happy Birthday, sweetheart," she said softly.
I blew it out. I wished for invisibility.
My father sat across from me. He was an old man now, retired from the life, but his gaze remained razor-sharp. He slid a heavy Manila envelope across the table.
"Two hundred thousand," he said. "Clean. Untraceable."
"Thank you, Papa."
"A woman needs her own bullets," he said, his voice rough with memory. "And her own bank account."
I took the money. Then, I turned on my old phone one last time.
A notification popped up from Instagram immediately. Dante had posted a photo.
It was a picture of a colossal diamond ring. The caption read: She said yes. A union of families.
He was announcing our engagement. He was claiming me publicly to force me back into the fold. He thought I would see it and fall in line. He assumed I was still the scared girl who craved his protection.
I opened my private account—the hidden one only a few trusted friends knew existed.
I typed a status update.
Single. No Fiance. No Master.
I posted it.
Then I blocked him.
I blocked Sofia. I blocked his driver. I blocked the entire Moretti lineage.
By Monday morning, the digital war had turned physical. I was at a real estate office on the edge of the city.
The apartment was small. A studio. But it had a heavy reinforced steel door and no doorman to be bribed.
I was signing the lease when the landlord's phone rang. He answered it, frowning.
"Yes? Who?"
He looked at me, the color draining from his face until he was sheet-white.
"It's for you, Miss Vitiello," he stammered, holding the device out like it was a bomb. "He says it's life or death."
I knew who it was. Dante had tracked me through the credit check. He owned the city.
I took the phone.
"Are you done?" I asked. My voice was flat.
"Elena," Dante growled. The sound was low, vibrating with a terrifying, controlled rage. "Take that post down. Now."
"No."
"You are humiliating me. The Families are laughing. They think I can't control my own woman."
"I'm not your woman, Dante."
"You are mine," he shouted, the control finally snapping. "You have been mine since I pulled you out of that rubble. You don't get to leave."
"Watch me."
"I'm coming there," he threatened. "I'm going to drag you home and lock you in your room until you learn respect."
"We are finished, Dante."
I hung up.
I handed the phone back to the terrified landlord.
"Block that number," I said.
I signed the deed. I took the key.
It was a small piece of metal. It felt heavier than the diamond he never gave me.
It felt like power.
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