Runaway Nurse: The Mafia King's Remorse

For seven years, I served as the eyes for Dante Vitiello, the blind Capo of New York.

I pulled him back from the edge of madness, tending to his wounds and warming his bed when everyone else had given up on him.

But the moment his vision returned, the years of devotion turned to ash.

In a single phone call, he decided to marry Sofia Moretti for territory, dismissing me as just "the maid's daughter" and a "comfort" he intended to keep as a mistress.

He forced me to watch him court her.

At a gala, when a chaotic accident caused a tower of champagne glasses to shatter, Dante threw his body over Sofia to protect her.

He left me standing there, bleeding from the glass shards, while he carried her away like she was porcelain.

He didn't even look back at the woman who had saved his life.

I realized then that I had worshipped a broken god.

I had given him my dignity, only for him to treat me like a disposable bandage now that he was whole.

He arrogantly believed I would stay in the penthouse, grateful for his scraps.

So, while he was out celebrating his engagement, I met with his mother.

I signed the severance agreement for fifty million dollars.

I packed my bags, wiped my phone, and boarded a one-way flight to Australia.

By the time Dante came home to an empty bed, realized his mistake, and began tearing the city apart to find me, I was already a ghost.

Chapter 1

Elena Rossi POV:

I was tracing the jagged scars on Dante's knuckles when his phone rang, and in the span of a single three-minute conversation, the seven years I had spent being his eyes, his nurse, and his lover turned into ash.

We were in the back of the armored Maybach.

The leather seats smelled like his cologne-sandalwood and gunpowder.

Dante Vitiello, the Capo of the New York families-the man who had blinded himself with whiskey and rage before I dragged him back from the edge-didn't pull his hand away from mine.

He simply answered the phone.

"Parla," he commanded. *Speak.*

He put it on speaker, but low.

He thought I was just the maid's daughter.

He thought the only thing I knew how to do was change bandages and warm his bed.

He didn't know that during the long nights when he was blind and screaming at the walls, I had taught myself his language just to understand the terror in his nightmares.

"Dante," Marco's voice crackled through the line, sharp with anger. "Are you insane? You're signing the papers with Sofia? After what she did to you?"

My finger stopped moving over his hand.

Dante sighed, a sound that used to vibrate against my chest when we slept.

"It's strategic, Marco," Dante replied in rapid, fluent Italian. "The Moretti territory is vital. Sofia is the key. I need her father's soldiers."

"And the girl?" Marco asked. "Elena?"

Dante looked at me.

His eyes, now restored to a piercing, icy blue, swept over my face.

He squeezed my hand. A reassurance. A lie.

"Elena is... comfortable," Dante said in Italian, his voice devoid of the warmth he had once showed me in the dark. "She is a comfort. But Sofia will be the wife. Elena doesn't need to know the details. She's happy in the penthouse. I'll keep her there."

A comfort.

Not a partner. Not a savior.

A pet.

My heart didn't break; it just stopped beating.

I looked out the tinted window.

The city lights blurred into streaks of red and gold against the rain-slicked glass.

"She's a servant's daughter, Marco," Dante added, driving the final nail into my coffin. "She understands her place. She won't question the Don."

He hung up.

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed the palm.

"Business," he said in English, his voice smooth, charming. The voice of a liar. "Just boring logistics, *tesoro*."

I smiled.

It felt like the skin on my face was cracking.

"Of course, Dante."

His phone buzzed again. A text.

He glanced at it, and I saw the name *Sofia* flash on the screen.

His jaw tightened.

He tapped the partition. "Stop the car."

The driver pulled over instantly onto the wet, gravel shoulder of the highway.

"Elena," Dante said, turning to me. "I have to handle something urgent. It's not safe for you to come."

It was raining.

We were ten miles from the penthouse.

"Here?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"The driver will loop back for you in an hour," he said, opening the door. The cold wind rushed in, biting my skin. "Wait inside the guard station up the road. I need the car."

He wasn't protecting me.

He was going to her.

And he didn't want the maid's daughter in the way.

I stepped out.

My heels sank into the mud.

The heavy door slammed shut, sealing him inside his world of power and blood.

The Maybach peeled away, tires screeching against the asphalt, leaving me standing in the freezing rain.

I watched the taillights fade until they were swallowed by the darkness.

Seven years.

I had fed him when he couldn't find his mouth.

I had read to him when he lived in eternal night.

I had worshipped a broken god, and now that he was whole, he had realized I wasn't divine enough for his altar.

I didn't walk to the guard station.

I stood there, letting the rain soak through my silk blouse, washing away the scent of his cologne.

I pulled my phone from my purse.

My hands were shaking, but my mind was crystal clear.

I dialed a number I had never dared to use.

"Vitiello Residence," a cold voice answered.

"Put Donna Isabella on the line," I said, staring down the empty road. "Tell her the maid's daughter is ready to negotiate her severance package."