Just A Placeholder: Dying For His Mistress

Elena POV

My phone buzzed against the dark mahogany table, the vibration shattering the silence like a drill.

It was 2:00 AM.

The screen lit up with a message from a blocked number.

No text.

Just a video file.

My chest tightened painfully.

In our world, anonymous messages usually meant someone was dead.

I pressed play.

The video was grainy, a wash of high-contrast black and white security footage from the VIP room of The Vault, a club owned by the Family.

Dante was sitting on a leather sofa, a glass of whiskey loose in his hand.

His tie was undone, draped around his neck.

He looked like a king holding court in hell.

Sofia was next to him, coiled tight and leaning close, her hand resting possessively on his knee.

There were other men in the room-Capos, soldiers-laughing at something I couldn't hear.

"The girl?" Dante's voice came through the speakers, distorted by the recording but devastatingly unmistakable. "Elena?"

My heart stopped.

He took a sip of his drink, his face a mask of bored indifference.

"She was a placeholder," he said flatly. "A necessary tactic. I needed the Morettis to think I was unavailable. Jealousy is a powerful motivator. It forced Sofia's father to the table faster than a bullet would have."

Sofia laughed, throwing her head back in triumph.

"And it worked," she purred, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "I hated her so much I agreed to the merger just to get you back."

"Strategy, cara," Dante said, clinking his glass against hers. "Just business."

The video ended.

I stared at the black screen, unable to breathe.

I wasn't a person to him.

I wasn't a lover.

I was a pawn.

A tactic.

A prop used to manipulate a business deal.

Suddenly, the front door lock clicked.

I froze.

Steps echoed in the hallway.

Heavy, uneven footsteps.

He was drunk.

"He needs rest, Sofia," Dante's voice drifted down the hall, thick and weary. "Leave it."

"He needs to cut the loose end," Sofia's voice whispered, sharp and venomous. "She's clutter, Dante. She's polluting our penthouse."

I stood in the shadows of the hallway, pressing my back against the cold wall, praying to disappear.

"She knows her place," Dante slurred. "Don't ruin my night."

"Make her leave," Sofia demanded. "Or I will."

Dante laughed.

It was a cruel, dark sound that scraped against my nerves.

"Do what you want," he said carelessly. "Just don't get blood on the carpet. It's imported."

He didn't defend me.

He didn't claim me.

He gave her permission to destroy me.

My legs gave out.

I slid down the wall, my hand clamping over my mouth to stifle the sob that was tearing my throat apart.