She Returned: A Mafia Boss’s Nightmare

Elara POV:

The statement was a declaration of war. Within minutes, my name-and face-was everywhere. The whispers from the restaurant had erupted into a digital firestorm. I was a home-wrecker. A fraud. A pathetic, obsessed girl trying to steal the life of a better woman.

I found him in his penthouse office, its glass walls overlooking the entire city.

"Why?" I screamed, my voice raw. "Why did you give her my work?"

He didn't even have the decency to look guilty. He admitted it with a chilling casualness.

"Isabella didn't mean for them to be published," he said. "But a major Moretti company is going public next week. We can't afford a scandal. You need to take the fall for this one, Elara."

The words tasted like ash in my mouth. "Take the fall?" I repeated. "Dante, this will destroy me. This will ruin my chances of ever getting into Paris. It's a stain that will follow me for the rest of my life."

He was dismissive, already looking at his watch, his mind elsewhere. "You don't need art school. I'll take care of you forever." He was already moving toward the door.

"She already knows she was wrong," he added, as if that fixed everything. "Just drop it."

I remembered a time when a man had insulted me at a gala, and Dante had quietly had him removed, his hand broken in three places. He had come back to me, his eyes dark with possession, and had whispered, "I'm here."

That man was gone.

I spent the next two days erasing myself from this life, packing the few belongings I had left. I was preparing to leave this city for good right after I visited my father's grave. The past was a ghost I could no longer live with.

The door to my temporary apartment burst open. Dante stormed in, his face a mask of raw fury.

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. "Where is she? Where have you taken Isabella?"

I stared at him, bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb with me," he snarled. "She's missing. Kidnapped."

"I don't know anything about it," I said, trying to pull away.

A cruel disbelief twisted his features. His patience, already worn thin, snapped. He shoved me away from him, and I stumbled back.

"Besides you"-his voice dripped with contempt-"who else would give a damn about a little plagiarism?"

His phone rang. He listened for a moment, his expression hardening from rage into a cold, venomous fury directed entirely at me. He hung up.

"I don't even know who you are anymore," he said, his voice a low growl.

He turned and left without a backward glance.

I stumbled, my hand flying to my mouth as a sharp, metallic taste filled it. I coughed, and a spray of crimson bloomed against my skin.