Roses never fade

Elena Rossi's POV:

The charity auction was less of a gala and more of a battlefield for high society.

I wasn't supposed to be here.

Dante had explicitly told me to stay home.

But Marco, kind-hearted but clueless, had sent a driver for me, assuming Dante had simply forgotten to pass along the invite. I couldn't refuse without raising questions I wasn't ready to answer.

So, I stood on the periphery, half-hidden in the shadow of a marble pillar, watching.

Dante stood in the center of the room. He didn't just occupy the space; he commanded it.

He looked like a king. Lethal. Handsome. Untouchable.

And Sofia was right beside him.

She laughed, letting her hand linger on his bicep, her lips brushing his ear to whisper secrets I would never hear.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew heavy.

Three men from the Russo family approached them. They were drunk, their voices too loud, completely out of place against the polite murmurs of the room.

One of them grabbed Sofia's arm, his grip visibly rough.

"Look at the little princess," the man sneered, slurring his words. "Daddy's broke, so she crawls back to the big bad wolf?"

Sofia let out a shriek that cut through the noise like breaking glass.

Dante moved faster than conscious thought.

He seized the man's wrist and twisted violently. The sickening crack of bone echoed through the hall.

Total chaos erupted.

Security swarmed the area.

This could very well start a war.

Dante, having just regained his sight, was in no position to wage a war. It would push him and his family straight off a cliff.

Dante shoved the man away, his face contorted in undisguised fury.

"Back off!" Dante roared.

He swung his arm backward, clearing a perimeter to form a protective circle around Sofia.

He didn't see me.

He didn't know I had taken a step forward, instinctively reaching out to pull him back from the brink.

His thick forearm slammed into my chest like a battering ram.

I flew backward.

My head hit the sharp edge of the marble pillar.

A blinding flash of white light exploded across my vision.

I crumpled to the floor, my sight swimming.

A warm stream trickled down my neck. Thick blood.

"Dante..." I gasped, the air knocked from my lungs.

But he wasn't looking at me.

He was on his knees, entirely focused on Sofia, gently holding her ankle.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her, his voice frantic. "Did they touch you?"

"My ankle," Sofia sobbed, clutching his collar. "I think I sprained it. Oh, God, Dante, get me out of here."

Without a second's hesitation, he scooped her up in his arms.

He walked right past me.

His Italian leather shoe stepped right into the fresh drops of blood I had left on the polished floor.

He didn't look down.

He carried her out of the hall as if she were made of porcelain, leaving me bleeding on the cold stone, utterly ignored.

I stitched the wound myself in the penthouse bathroom.

Four stitches.

I didn't use an anesthetic. The sharp pain of the needle piercing my skin momentarily distracted me from the massive, gaping wound in my chest.

I sat on the bathroom tiles all night, staring at the door, waiting for the knob to turn.

It didn't.

The next morning, my phone rang.

"Velvet Lounge, VIP Room 703, now." Dante's voice was frigid and devoid of life.

He hung up before I could utter a single word.

I pulled on a turtleneck sweater to hide the bandages and hailed a cab, my head still throbbing violently with every heartbeat.

When I walked into the private room, the air was thick with the smell of cigars.

Dante sat on a leather sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Sofia sat next to him, one foot propped up on a velvet pillow, dramatically wrapped in an ace bandage.

She looked flawless. Impeccable, like a pure, blameless victim.

Dante looked at me with an expression I didn't recognize at all. His eyes were dead, showing no sign that he even knew who I was.

"Explain," he demanded.

"Explain what?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady despite my trembling hands.

"Those men at the auction," Dante said low, his tone dark and dangerous. "They were Russians."

And?

"Sofia says you know them," Dante said. "She says she saw you signal them right before they approached her."

I looked at Sofia in sheer shock.

She gave me a sad, pitying smile. Masterful acting. "Elena, I know you're jealous. But hiring men to scare me? That's too dangerous. You almost got Dante hurt."

My jaw practically hit the floor.

"You think I hired the Russos?" I looked back at Dante, fighting to keep my sanity, and asked. "Dante, I was standing in the corner. You hit me. You knocked me out."

"Don't lie to me!" Dante slammed his hand on the table, rattling the crystal glasses.

I flinched.

"I watched the security footage, Elena," he roared. "You were right there. Watching. Waiting."

"I was waiting for you," I whispered, even though I knew how pathetic it sounded.

"You're lucky, Elena," Dante spat, the verdict hanging in the air like a guillotine blade. "Because of what you've done for me in the past... I will spare your life."

Mercy.

He pointed at Sofia.

"Apologize," he commanded, leaving no room for argument. "Get on your knees and apologize to her."