The Betrayed Princess's New Reign

Elena Vitiello POV:

"No one can take you from me. Not even death."

Dante’s words still echoed in my mind days later as I sat behind the massive desk in my Manhattan office.

Bright, crisp sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the dust motes in the air. The room was perfectly neat, smelling of fresh lilies and polished wood. The absolute cleanliness was a sharp contrast to the blood and ash that had stained the plaza.

I wore a tailored, slate-grey suit. I held a silver pen, calmly reviewing the financial projections for a new shipping merger.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," I said, not looking up.

Dr. Evans walked in. He wore his usual immaculate white coat, his gentle, clinical demeanor radiating a quiet calm. He carried two thick manila folders in his hands.

He walked to the desk and placed the files carefully on the glass surface.

I set my pen down. I picked up my teacup, the porcelain warm against my fingers, and took a slow sip of Earl Grey.

"Report," I said simply.

Dr. Evans opened the first file. "Matteo," he stated, his voice professional and detached. "The crush injury to his right leg caused a massive, immediate necrotic infection. The metal from the car door severed the main artery and crushed the bone beyond repair."

I swallowed my tea. "And?"

"We had to amputate his remaining leg just below the knee to stop the sepsis," Dr. Evans explained. "He will never walk or use prosthetics again. He is permanently confined to a wheelchair. His nervous system is shot; he will require constant pain management for the rest of his life."

I stared at the medical scans in the folder. My face remained perfectly blank. I felt nothing.

Dr. Evans opened the second file.

"Luca," he said, his tone dropping slightly. "He survived the craniotomy. We stopped the brain bleed. However, the blunt force trauma to his skull caused severe, irreversible damage to his frontal lobe."

I set my teacup down. The porcelain clinked softly against the saucer.

"Define irreversible," I demanded.

"His cognitive functions have permanently regressed," Dr. Evans said flatly. "His mental capacity is now that of a five-year-old child. He has lost all long-term memory of his adult life, including his time in the syndicate. He cannot feed or bathe himself."

Dr. Evans pulled out a recent photograph from the file and slid it toward me.

I looked at it. Luca was sitting in a sterile hospital bed, wearing a generic gown. He was drooling slightly out of the corner of his mouth, clutching a cheap, ragged teddy bear to his chest, smiling blankly at a blank wall.

A heavy silence filled the office.

I looked at the picture of the man who had once terrified me, who had locked me in a basement and treated me like a disposable object. He was a shell. A drooling, empty vessel.

My laptop chimed with a high-priority notification.

I clicked the screen. It was a heavily encrypted email from the Chicago Underboss—my father’s second-in-command.

I opened the official statement.

*The Chicago Syndicate officially severs all ties with Luca and Matteo. All family funds, medical stipends, and protection details are revoked immediately. They are no longer recognized by our bloodline.*

They were cutting their losses. The hospital would kick them out by noon. They were being transferred to a decrepit, state-run asylum in the slums of the city to rot.

Dr. Evans watched my face. He saw the complete lack of pity in my eyes. He gave a small, respectful nod, understanding that I required no comfort.

He turned and walked toward the door.

As he reached for the handle, the door swung inward.

Dante stepped into the office. He immediately locked eyes with Dr. Evans. Dante’s jaw tightened, his possessive instincts flaring instantly at the sight of another capable man standing in my space.

Dr. Evans wisely bowed his head, slipped past Dante, and quietly closed the door.

I picked up the medical files. I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a stack of old, faded photographs. They were pictures of me and Luca from our childhood in Chicago, back when I thought he was my protector.

I walked over to the heavy-duty paper shredder in the corner of the room.

I fed the medical files and the childhood photos into the metal slot. The machine growled, a heavy, grinding sound as the steel blades chewed the paper into tiny, unrecognizable strips.

I watched the faces of my past turn to dust. I was finally, completely free.

Dante walked up behind me. He wrapped his strong arms around my waist and rested his chin heavily on my shoulder.

He looked down at the shredded paper in the bin. A low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest.

"Are you ready for our guests from Chicago?" Dante asked softly, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck.

I turned in his arms. I looped my hands around his neck and smiled, my eyes cold and bright.

"Let him come. It's time for Chicago to change masters."