The Capo Who Forgot His Beloved Wife

Elena Vitiello POV

The nickname hung in the air for a heartbeat, fragile as smoke, before Dante blinked and the cold mask slammed back into place.

He shook his head, a sharp, jerky motion, physically trying to dislodge the memory.

"Get out of my sight," he growled.

He didn't remember.

Not really.

It was just a glitch in the programming of a broken machine.

I turned and walked toward the elevators without a word.

My wrist throbbed in time with my pulse, a dull, rhythmic agony, but I didn't cradle it.

I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

I took the service elevator to the Magnolia Penthouse.

Carla was already there, having taken the main lift. She was pacing the floor, her heels clicking sharply against the marble, furious about her phone.

"You owe me a new iPhone, you bitch!" she screeched as I entered.

I didn't offer her the dignity of a response.

I walked to the window and looked out at the New York skyline. From this height, the city didn't look like freedom; it looked like a cage of steel and glass.

The door to the suite opened behind me.

Dante walked in.

But he wasn't alone.

Don Salvatore and Donna Maria Moretti followed him.

My in-laws.

The people who had watched their son turn into a monster and applauded him for it.

Donna Maria was a small woman with hair dyed a severe black and eyes that judged everything they touched and found it wanting.

She held a velvet box in her hands.

She walked past me as if I were nothing more than a piece of misplaced furniture and went straight to Carla.

"Welcome to the family, dear," she said.

She opened the box.

Inside lay a diamond necklace. It was a heavy, intricate piece, the stones set in platinum.

It was the Vitiello family necklace.

My mother had given it to me on my wedding day.

It was part of the dowry Dante had just unknowingly signed back to me. But physically, the metal and stone were still here.

Donna Maria clasped it around Carla's neck.

"It fits you much better," the Don said, looking at me with a sneer. "Elena never had the neck for it. Too thin. Too weak."

Carla preened, touching the cold stones with a possessive smirk.

"Thank you, Donna Maria. I promise to give Dante many strong sons."

The Don nodded approvingly.

"That is all we ask. An heir. Something Elena failed to provide."

The accusation stung, even though it was a lie.

I wasn't barren.

Dante had just never touched me since the accident.

Donna Maria pulled out her phone.

"The boys want to say hello," she said.

She put it on speaker.

Dante's nephews, Marco and Stefano, were on the line. They were ten and twelve, old enough to mimic the cruelty of their fathers but young enough to lack the discipline.

"Is the witch there?" Marco's voice crackled through the speaker.

"Tell her we hate her!" Stefano added. "Tell her she smells like garbage!"

Donna Maria laughed softly.

"Such spirited boys."

She looked at me with cold amusement.

"You upset them, Elena. Your very presence upsets the balance of this family."

She stepped forward and slapped me.

It wasn't a hard slap, but it was sharp.

Her ring caught my cheek, scratching the skin.

I didn't move.

I tasted copper in my mouth.

"Enough, Mother," Dante said.

His voice was bored, not protective.

He was looking at my wrist. It had swollen to twice its size, turning a sickly purple.

He stared at it with a strange intensity, as if trying to solve a puzzle he couldn't quite see.

"I need to check the inventory," I said, my voice hollow.

I needed to get out.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

One buzz.

That was the signal from Luca.

The extraction team was in position.

I walked out of the penthouse.

I didn't run, though every instinct in my body screamed at me to flee.

I took the stairs down to the lobby and exited through the side door into the alley.

The cold air hit my face.

I took a deep breath.

Just a few more blocks.

Luca was waiting two streets over in a black SUV.

"Hey, Witch!"

I froze.

Marco and Stefano were standing at the end of the alley.

They must have been waiting for their parents to pick them up.

They held brightly colored plastic water guns.

Super Soakers.

They were grinning.

"Look what Uncle Dante gave us!" Marco yelled.

He raised the neon green gun.

I sighed.

"Go home, boys," I said.

I didn't have time for this.

Marco pulled the trigger.

A stream of liquid shot out.

I expected cold water.

I expected to be wet and annoyed.

The liquid hit my neck and chest.

It didn't feel like water.

It felt like fire.

It felt like a thousand bees stinging at once.

Smoke rose from my silk blouse.

The fabric dissolved instantly.

Then the skin underneath began to bubble.

I screamed.

It was a sound I didn't recognize, a primal tear in the fabric of the world.

The smell of burning flesh filled the alley.

Industrial cleaner.

Acid.

The boys laughed, high and cruel, and ran away.

I fell to my knees, clawing at my melting skin, realizing that in this family, even the children were executioners.