The Capo Who Forgot His Beloved Wife

Elena Vitiello POV

Consciousness returned in fragments, emerging from the dark.

For a moment, I thought I was already dead.

Then the pain hit me.

My ribs felt like a cage of shattered glass held together only by bruising and skin.

My wrist throbbed with a dull, heavy rhythm, keeping time with my racing heart.

I was in my bedroom in the main house.

Dante was sitting in the armchair in the corner.

He was watching me.

The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face.

He looked like a statue carved from regret, but I knew better.

Statues don't bleed, but Dante Moretti made sure everyone else did.

"Do not speak that name again," he said.

His voice was rough, like gravel grinding together.

"If you ever speak of Luca Genovese or the Chicago Outfit, I will burn your father's territory to ash. I will make sure there is nothing left of the Vitiello name."

I tried to sit up.

I failed.

My body was a cage of pain, locking me in place.

His phone rang.

He answered it on speaker.

"Dante!" It was Carla. She was sobbing. Hysterical.

"She hurt the baby! That witch hurt my baby!"

Dante stiffened, his posture shifting from exhausted guard dog to predator.

"What are you talking about?"

"I found bruises on her arm! And her lip... her lip is cut! She said the lady in the white dress did it!"

I closed my eyes.

The lie was so clumsy, so obvious.

But Dante wasn't looking for truth.

He was looking for a reason.

He hung up the phone.

He stood up and walked to the bed.

"Get up," he said.

"I can't," I whispered.

He didn't care.

He grabbed my arm and wrenched me out of bed.

I cried out as agony spiked through my chest, but he dragged me down the hall, down the stairs, and out to his car.

He drove with a terrifying, silent focus back to the hotel.

He dragged me through the lobby.

It was full of people.

Guests. Staff. Paparazzi that Carla had undoubtedly tipped off.

They watched as the great Dante Moretti dragged his battered wife across the marble floor.

Carla was waiting in the center of the lobby.

She was holding a toddler.

The child was crying.

"Look!" Carla shrieked, pointing at the baby's swollen lip. "Look what she did!"

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"Monster," someone whispered.

"Child abuser," another said.

A bellhop stepped forward.

"I saw her, Mr. Moretti," he lied, his eyes fixed on his polished shoes. "I saw Mrs. Moretti near the stroller earlier. She looked... angry."

It was an orchestrated hit.

My reputation, my business, my life-all being dismantled in real-time.

Dante looked at the baby.

Then he looked at me.

His eyes were dead.

There was no conflict in them anymore.

Only judgment.

"An eye for an eye is not enough for the innocent," he said.

He turned to his Head of Security.

"Bring the kit."

The crowd went silent.

The guard returned with a small black velvet roll.

Dante unrolled it on the concierge desk.

Inside was a silver needle and a spool of thick black thread.

The kind used for stitching leather upholstery.

Or for the Omertà punishment.

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

This was the punishment for traitors who spoke against the Family.

"Hold her," Dante ordered.

Two guards grabbed my arms.

They forced me to my knees.

Dante picked up the needle.

He threaded it with steady hands.

"No," I whispered. "Dante, please. Look at me."

He didn't look at my eyes.

He looked at my mouth.

"You use your voice to lie," he said. "You use it to call for my enemies. You use it to hurt children."

He gripped my chin.

His fingers were iron.

"You don't deserve a voice."

He pushed the needle through my bottom lip.

The pain was sharp and shocking.

It pierced through the sensitive skin and came out the top lip.

I tried to scream, but my mouth was pinned shut.

He pulled the thread tight.

Blood dripped down my chin, staining my white silk dress crimson.

He didn't stop.

He did it again.

And again.

Three stitches.

One for silence.

One for obedience.

One for the Family.

The lobby was dead silent.

The only sound was the wet slide of the thread and my choked, gurgling sobs.

He tied the knot.

He cut the thread.

He stepped back and looked at his handiwork.

He wiped the blood from his fingers with a handkerchief.

"Silence becomes you, Elena," he said.

I looked at him.

My lips were sealed with black thread.

My body was broken.

My heart was ash.

But inside, deep in the dark where he couldn't reach, I started to laugh.

It was a hysterical, silent laughter.

Because he thought he had won.

He thought he had silenced me.

But he had just set me free.

Loyalty was my cage.

And he had just broken the lock.