Runaway Mistress: The Mafia Boss Begs On His Knees

My fever broke just in time for me to be paraded like a show pony.

Isabella threw a garment onto the foot of my bed.

It was red.

The color of the sins they were forcing me to swallow.

"Get up," she commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Tonight is the celebration of the heir. You will stand in the back. You will smile. And you will look grateful that we let you breathe our air."

I pulled the dress over my head.

It hung loosely on my frame, failing to cling to the curves I no longer possessed.

I had lost ten pounds during the quarantine, surviving on tepid tap water and the echoes of Dante playing house with another woman.

The gala was held in the grand ballroom of the Pierre Hotel.

Crystal chandeliers dripped artificial light onto men who killed for a living and women who looked the other way for the sake of diamond necklaces.

I clung to the shadows near a marble pillar, invisible to everyone but the security detail assigned to ensure I didn't run.

Dante stood at the center of the room.

He looked devastating in his tuxedo, the King of New York holding court.

Sofia was by his side, glowing in white silk, the baby resting in her arms like a prop.

Isabella stepped forward, a microphone in hand.

She snapped open a velvet box.

A diamond ring the size of a quail egg glittered violently under the lights.

"To my daughter-in-law," she announced, her voice booming. "For giving the Moretti family its future."

The room erupted in polite, thunderous applause.

Dante took the ring.

He slid it onto Sofia's finger.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

The camera flashes went off like strobes, blinding me, burning the image of their union into my retinas.

I felt nothing.

My heart was a dried leaf, crumbling to dust inside my chest.

Then, Sofia saw me.

Of course she did.

She handed the baby to the nanny and waved me over with a manicured hand.

"Come, Elena!" she called out, her voice dripping with a sweetness that tasted like saccharine. "Get in the photo. We are all family here."

The guests murmured, their gazes sliding over me-the mistress, the fish girl, the charity case.

Dante stiffened.

He looked at me across the crowd, his eyes pleading.

_Just do it,_ his gaze seemed to say. _Just play along._

I walked forward, my legs moving on autopilot.

I took my place next to Sofia.

She leaned in close, smiling radiantly for the cameras.

"You look like a corpse," she whispered through her teeth. "Try not to bleed on the floor."

I stared straight ahead, focusing on the flashbulbs.

Then the world groaned.

The heavy velvet backdrop behind us, laden with thousands of roses and supported by a massive steel frame, gave way.

It tipped forward with the screech of tearing metal.

Dante moved before anyone else.

He didn't think.

He lunged.

He tackled me.

He threw his body over mine, driving me into the carpet as the steel frame crashed down exactly where we had been standing.

Dust and crushed petals filled the air, choking the light.

Silence fell over the room.

Dante lifted his head, his hands checking me frantically.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded, his voice rough. "Elena?"

I shook my head, stunned.

He had saved me.

In the moment of pure instinct, he had chosen me.

Then a scream pierced the silence.

Sofia.

She was trapped under the edge of the frame.

Blood was pooling rapidly on the white carpet.

Dante's face went white.

He scrambled off me, leaving me in the dust, and ran to her.

"Sofia!" he roared.

He lifted the steel beam with a strength born of sheer panic.

She was pale, gasping for air, clutching her abdomen.

The ambulance arrived in minutes.

We were rushed to the private wing of Lenox Hill.

I sat in the waiting room, covered in dust, forgotten.

A doctor burst out of the operating doors.

"She is hemorrhaging," he told Dante urgently. "We need O-negative blood. The blood bank is low. We don't have time to wait for a transfer."

Dante turned to me slowly.

He knew my blood type.

He knew everything about me.

"Give it to her," he said.

It wasn't a question.

I looked at him, disbelief washing over me like ice water.

"You want my blood?" I asked, my voice trembling. "The same blood you called dirty?"

"She carries the spare heir," Dante said, his voice shaking with a terrifying intensity. "If she dies, the alliance dies. If the alliance dies, war starts."

"I don't care about your war," I spat.

I stood up to leave.

Dante grabbed my arm.

His grip was iron.

"You will do this," he snarled.

"You owe the Family. You caused the accident with your bad luck."

I stared at him.

This wasn't the man who had saved me from the bomb.

This was the Don who would grind bones to make his bread.

"Strap her down," he ordered the guards.

"No!" I screamed as they grabbed me.

They dragged me into the prep room.

They held my arm down on the table.

The needle pierced my skin.

Dante stood in the doorway, watching.

He didn't look away.

"Take what you need," he told the nurse coldly.

I watched the bag fill with red.

They took one pint.

Then two.

I started to get dizzy, the room tilting on its axis.

"Stop," I whispered, my strength fading. "Please."

"She needs more," Dante said, his voice void of emotion.

The room spun.

Black spots danced in my vision.

He was draining me dry to keep his lie alive.

I looked at him one last time before the darkness took me.

_I hope it chokes her,_ I thought.

Then I passed out.