The Don's Regret: She Saved His Life

The Vitiello estate kitchen was a sprawling expanse of stainless steel and cold marble, a barren landscape that mirrored the man who owned it.

I wasn't the mistress of the house anymore. I was the help.

"Too hot," Sofia declared, pushing the bowl of soup away.

It skidded across the counter before tipping over the edge and shattering on the floor.

Scalding tomato bisque splattered onto my bare legs. The heat was searing, but I didn't flinch. Inside, I was too numb to care.

"Clean it up," Dante commanded. He sat at the head of the island, reading a newspaper, not even glancing at the burn turning my skin an angry, blistered red.

I got down on my knees.

My LVAD bag bumped against my hip, the heavy battery pack dragging down the waistband of the maid’s uniform I had been forced into.

*Whir-click-whir.*

It was the only sound in the room besides the scraping of ceramic shards.

"You missed a spot," Sofia said.

She stood up, her high heel coming down hard on my hand.

I gasped, biting my lip until copper filled my mouth. She ground her heel into my knuckles, twisting it for maximum pain.

"Dante," she whined, turning to him with wide, innocent eyes. "She's looking at me like she wants to kill me."

Dante looked up sharply. He saw his fiancée—the woman he believed had saved his life—being glared at by the daughter of his father's murderer.

He rose, crossed the distance in two predatory strides, and drove his boot into my ribs.

The air left my lungs in a violent rush. I curled into a ball, clutching my side where the tube entered my abdomen. Agony exploded, white and blinding.

"Don't you ever look at her with disrespect," Dante growled.

He grabbed me by the hair, dragging me across the floor. "You need to cool off."

He dragged me through the hallways, past the judgmental stares of his ancestors' portraits, down into the basement. He kicked open the heavy steel door of the industrial meat locker—The Cooler.

He hurled me inside.

I skidded across the frosted metal floor, hitting a hanging carcass of beef. The cold hit me instantly. It wasn't just cold; it was a physical assault. My circulation was already poor because of the pump. Cold was dangerous. It thickened the blood. It made the machine work harder.

"Dante," I chattered, my teeth clashing together. "The battery... the cold drains it..."

"Good," he said, his hand on the door handle. "Think about your father while you freeze."

The door slammed shut. Darkness swallowed me.

I huddled in the corner, pulling my knees to my chest in a futile attempt to conserve heat. The cold bit into my bones.

As hypothermia set in, reality blurred. I saw Dante from three years ago, sitting by my hospital bed, holding my hand, promising me forever.

*“I’ll burn the world for you, Elena.”*

Now, he was the fire, and I was the witch burning at the stake.

Time lost its meaning. My fingers turned blue. The *whir-click-whir* of my heart pump began to slow, the rhythm struggling against the thickening blood.

*Beep. Beep. Beep.*

The low battery alarm.

I closed my eyes, welcoming the silence.

Abruptly, the door was wrenched open. Harsh light flooded in. A guard stood there, looking terrified.

"Boss says bring her up. Sofia cut her finger. She needs a bandage."

He dragged me out. I couldn't walk; my legs were blocks of ice. He dumped me in the hallway.

Dante was there, carefully wrapping a small band-aid around Sofia’s index finger, then kissing the tip tenderly.

He looked over at me, shivering violently on the floor, my lips blue, my skin gray.

"She's alive?" he asked the guard, sounding disappointed.

"Barely, Boss."

Dante turned back to Sofia. "Let's go to the hospital just to be safe, *amore*. A cut can get infected."

He stepped over me.

I lay there on the cold tile, watching his back retreat. I pulled my phone from my pocket with stiff, trembling fingers. The screen lit up in the dim hallway.

Six days left.