Runaway Nurse: The Mafia King's Remorse

A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the room.

Even the bodyguards stationed by the door averted their gaze, shifting uncomfortably in their suits.

"Dante," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I didn't do it."

"Knees," he barked.

Sofia sighed, a sound of exaggerated theatricality. "Dante, honey, don't be so harsh. Maybe she just needs a drink to calm her nerves. A toast, perhaps? To my safety?"

She gestured languidly to a bottle of whiskey resting on the low table.

"Drink it," Sofia commanded, her eyes gleaming with the cruelty of a predator toying with its prey. "Finish the bottle, and I'll forgive you."

I stared at the amber liquid.

I hadn't let alcohol touch my lips in five years.

When Dante was blind, he used to drink to drown the darkness. He became a monster when the liquor took hold, a creature of rage and sorrow. So I stopped drinking to be the sober one. The anchor in his storm.

My tolerance was non-existent.

"I can't," I choked out.

Dante leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "You disrespected the Family, Elena. You drink, or you leave New York in a body bag. Choose."

He was bluffing. Or maybe he wasn't.

I couldn't read the man behind the mask anymore.

I walked to the table, my legs feeling like lead.

I reached for the bottle.

As I did, my hand brushed against the room service tray next to it. In a blur of motion, I palmed the small shaker of mustard powder.

While they watched, thinking I was hesitating, I tipped my head back and slipped a handful of the yellow dust into my mouth, dry-swallowing it in one agonizing gulp.

An old servant's trick. It was a violent emetic; it would force me to purge everything before the alcohol could stop my heart.

Then, I started drinking.

The whiskey hit my throat like molten lead.

One glass.

Two glasses.

Sofia clapped her hands, delighted as a child at a grotesque circus.

Three glasses.

The room began to tilt on its axis.

Four.

I gagged, fighting the urge to retch too soon.

Five.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and humiliating.

Dante was watching me. His face was carved from granite, but his hand gripped his knee so tightly his knuckles had turned bone-white.

Six.

I swayed, the floor rushing up to meet me.

Seven.

My fingers went numb. I dropped the glass. It shattered, sending shards of crystal skittering across the floor.

"Enough," Dante said. His voice was rough, like gravel grinding together.

He stood abruptly and seized my wrist. "That's enough, Elena."

I yanked my arm away from him.

The alcohol flooded my veins with a reckless, burning courage.

"Are you happy, Don Vitiello?" I slurred, flinging a hand toward Sofia. "Is she worth it? Does she know how to hold you when the nightmares tear you apart? Does she know which song lulls you back to the dark?"

"Elena, stop," he warned, a dangerous edge to his tone.

"I hope she burns you," I spat, the words tasting of bile and whiskey. "I hope she burns you down to the ground."

I turned and stumbled toward the door.

"Elena!" he shouted.

I made it to the hallway before my legs finally betrayed me.

The mustard powder kicked in with violent force.

I collapsed, heaving, my body rejecting the poison and the grief all at once.

Darkness swarmed the edges of my vision, narrowing the world to a pinprick.

I felt strong arms lift me up effortlessly.

"Call the car!" Dante was roaring, his composure shattered. "Get the damn car!"

"Dante, wait!" Sofia's voice echoed shrilly from the room. "You can't leave me!"

"Shut up, Sofia!"

He carried me, holding me tight against him.

I pressed my face against his chest.

It smelled like sandalwood and betrayal.

"Let me go," I whispered into his shirt, my consciousness fading. "Please, just let me go."

*

I woke up in a hospital bed.

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled my nose.

Dante was sitting in the chair next to me. His head was buried in his hands.

He looked wrecked-a king sitting in the ruins of his own making.

"You're awake," he said, sitting up sharply.

"Where is she?" I asked, my gaze fixed on the white ceiling tiles. "Where is your wife?"

"She's not my wife yet," he said, his voice low. "Elena... why did you drink it? You know you can't handle it."

"You told me to."

"I was angry. I didn't mean..." He trailed off, the excuse dying in the air.

He reached for my hand.

I pulled it under the sheet, hiding it from his touch.

"Go back to your duties, Dante," I said, my voice cold as ice. "The maid's daughter will be fine."

He flinched as if I had struck him.

"Stop calling yourself that."

"It's what I am," I said. "And it's all I'll ever be to you."

He stood up, pacing the small room like a caged animal. "I'm doing this for the Family. You don't understand politics."

"I understand loyalty," I countered. "And I understand that you have none."

He stopped pacing. He looked at me with a terrifying intensity, his dark eyes burning into mine.

"You are mine," he said, his voice a low growl. "Contract or no contract. Wife or no wife. You belong to me, Elena. Never forget that."

He turned and strode out of the room.

I waited until the heavy door clicked shut.

Then, I pulled the IV out of my arm.

Blood dripped onto the pristine white sheets, a stark red stain.

Nine days left.