The Mafia King's Unwanted Wife Shines

Elena POV

It took the doctors three hours to pick the shards of glass from my skin, a tedious excavation that required forty stitches to close.

My left arm was swathed in bandages from wrist to elbow; my side was taped tight to hold me together.

Dante handled the bill, of course.

Then he tried to force his way into my room.

I told the nurse that if she let him in, I would rip every single stitch out of my flesh with my bare hands.

She looked at my eyes and believed me.

I checked myself out the next morning, signing the release forms against medical advice.

Clara drove me to the penthouse—not the Estate, but the sterile city apartment where Dante stayed when he was "working late."

I wasn't staying. I just needed my passport from the safe.

I walked inside, my body feeling like a heavy construct of lead and pulverized glass.

I hadn't expected him to be there, but he was.

Dante sat on the couch, nursing a glass of whiskey at ten in the morning.

When he looked up, his eyes were bloodshot maps of his own turmoil.

"You're back," he said, his voice rough.

"Just for my things," I replied, my tone flat.

I tried to walk past him toward the study, but his voice stopped me.

"Elena, stop." He stood up, swaying slightly on his feet. "We need to talk."

"There is nothing to talk about."

"The club... it was an accident," he stammered, stepping closer. "I didn't mean to push you that hard. I was protecting..."

"Protecting her," I finished for him. "I know."

"She's fragile," Dante said, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "She's not like you. You're... tough. You can take it."

I stopped dead.

I turned slowly, the movement pulling at my fresh stitches.

"I can take it?" I repeated, the words tasting like ash. "Because I took the whipping? Because I took the years of neglect? Because I took a bullet for you?"

He froze. "What?"

I shook my head, dismissing the revelation. "Nothing. It doesn't matter anymore."

"You're my wife," he said, his voice hardening into that familiar command. "You're not leaving. You need me. Who else is going to protect you? You're a target, Elena. Without the Vitiello name, you're dead."

"I'm already dead, Dante," I said softly. "You killed me in that chapel."

"Stop being dramatic," he scoffed, trying to regain control of the narrative. "You need a man to survive in this world. You think you can make it on your own? You're a spoiled princess."

"Watch me."

"You'll be back," he sneered, though fear flickered behind his eyes. "You'll be back in a week, begging for money."

I didn't dignify that with a response.

I went to the safe, retrieved my passport and the stack of emergency cash I had hidden months ago.

When I walked back to the living room, the space was empty.

He was gone.

Then I heard a low murmur from the kitchen.

I walked over.

Sofia was there.

She was perched on the marble counter, casually eating a strawberry.

And Dante was standing between her legs.

He was leaning in, his forehead resting against hers, eyes closed.

He was seeking solace in the very arms that had caused this disaster.

They didn't hear me approach.

I watched them for a heartbeat.

It was a perfect, twisted tableau.

The Dark Prince and his fragile damsel.

I felt a strange sensation in my chest—not pain, but release.

It was the final snap of the tether.

I walked into the kitchen.

They jumped apart like guilty teenagers.

Sofia smirked, wiping juice from her lip. Dante looked guilty, then immediately defensive.

"I thought you left," he said.

I reached into my purse.

I pulled out the separation agreement Luca had drafted.

It was crumpled, stained with a single drop of my blood from the club floor.

I threw it on the counter next to the strawberries.

"I'm leaving now," I said.

I looked at Dante.

I looked him dead in the eye, stripping away every layer of pretense.

I raised my right hand—the one that wasn't bandaged.

"I, Elena Greco, swear on the Code of Omertà," I declared, my voice cutting through the air, clear and cold as ice.

Dante's eyes widened in horror. "Elena, don't do this."

An oath on the Code was binding. It was sacred. It was final.

"I swear by my blood and my breath," I continued, the ancient words flowing through me. "That I sever my tie to you. And if I ever love you again... if I ever let you into my heart again... may I be struck dead on the spot."

The room went deathly silent.

The air felt electrically charged, heavy with the weight of the vow.

Dante stared at me, his mouth slightly open, the color draining from his face.

He reached out to grab the paper, his hand shaking violently.

In his panic, he knocked a paring knife off the counter.

Reflexively, he tried to catch it.

His fingers closed around the blade, slicing deep into his palm.

Blood welled up, bright red, dripping onto the pristine white marble floor.

He didn't flinch.

He didn't look at the cut.

He just looked at me.

He looked terrified.

"You can't take that back," he whispered.

"I don't want to," I said.

I turned around.

My heels clicked rhythmically on the floor, a countdown to my freedom.

I walked out of the penthouse, out of the building, and into the blinding sunlight of New York City.

I hailed a cab.

"JFK Airport," I told the driver.

I didn't look back.

Behind me, Dante Vitiello was bleeding onto the floor, staring at a door that would never open for him again.

The cage was finally open.

The bird had flown.

And the snake was left alone in its nest.