Runaway Nurse: The Mafia King's Remorse

Elena Rossi POV

Donna Isabella didn't offer me tea.

She sat across from me in the private booth of a café that cost more to rent for an hour than my mother made in a year.

With a manicured hand, she slid a black folder across the cold marble table.

"I always knew you were smart, Elena," she said. Her voice was like velvet wrapped around a razor blade. "Smarter than your station implies."

I didn't touch the folder yet.

"I want out," I said, my voice steady. "Completely. No tail. No tracking. If Dante looks for me, he finds a ghost."

Isabella smiled. It was the smile of a predator watching a wounded deer limp away.

"Dante won't look for you," she said dismissively. "He is infatuated, yes. But he is a Vitiello. He knows duty. He is marrying Sofia Moretti in three months. You are... a loose end."

"Then cut it," I said.

I opened the folder.

The numbers were staggering. Fifty million dollars.

Enough to buy a small island. Enough to buy a new life.

But there were conditions.

*Clause 4: The Recipient must vacate the United States within 14 days.*

*Clause 7: The Recipient must never contact Dante Vitiello again.*

*Clause 9: Breach of contract results in immediate termination.*

And in the Vitiello family, "termination" didn't mean a lawsuit.

It meant a bullet.

I picked up the heavy fountain pen. The metal was cold against my skin.

My hand didn't tremble.

I signed my name. *Elena Rossi.*

I was signing away the only man I had ever loved, and it felt like I was cutting off my own limb to escape a trap.

"Wise choice," Isabella said, taking the folder back instantly before the ink could even dry. "The funds will be in an offshore account by morning. Australia is nice this time of year. No extradition treaties that concern us."

"Two weeks," I said.

"Two weeks," she confirmed. "Don't linger, child. The Don hates long goodbyes."

She left without paying the bill.

The walk back to the penthouse we shared was a blur.

The doorman smiled at me as I entered the lobby. "Good afternoon, Miss Rossi."

He didn't know I was already a ghost.

I went up to the apartment that spanned the entire top floor.

It was filled with things Dante had bought me. Jewelry I never wore. Dresses that cost a fortune. A gilded cage built of diamonds and silk.

I sat on the edge of the bed where we had made love just this morning.

My phone pinged.

A notification from Instagram.

I usually avoided social media, but curiosity is a poison.

I opened it.

Sofia Moretti had posted a photo ten minutes ago.

It was a close-up of a document on a mahogany desk. A marriage contract.

Her manicured hand was resting on Dante's forearm. I recognized the watch on his wrist immediately. I had given it to him for his birthday.

The caption read: *Fate always brings what is yours back to you. #VitielloMoretti #Forever.*

I stared at the screen until my eyes burned.

Fate didn't bring him back.

I did.

I nursed him back from the darkness. I healed him.

And she was reaping the harvest.

My phone buzzed again. A text from Dante.

*Dante: Staying in D.C. overnight. Business complications. Don't wait up. Love you.*

He wasn't in D.C.

He was with her.

He was probably celebrating the contract.

I typed back.

*Me: Okay. Be safe.*

I hit send.

Then I double-tapped Sofia's photo.

A "like."

A tiny, digital drop of blood in the water.

I put the phone down and walked to the closet.

I didn't pack clothes. I didn't pack the jewelry.

I pulled out a small, battered suitcase from beneath the designer racks.

I started packing the things that mattered.

My mother's rosary. The book I used to read to him when he was blind. A dried flower from the garden.

I was leaving.

But first, I had to survive the next two weeks without screaming.