The Underboss's Obsession: Stealing The Bride

Elena Vitello POV

"Let go of me." My voice was low. Almost a whisper.

Luca didn't let go. His grip tightened. His fingers bit into my skin.

"You're overreacting, Elena. You're my fiancée. You can't walk out because you're jealous of a charity case."

"Jealous?" I laughed. "I'm not jealous, Luca. I'm disgusted."

His eyes narrowed.

"Watch your mouth. You might be a Vitello, but you're going to be my wife. You need to learn respect."

"Respect?"

The word hung in the air between us, thick and ugly.

He talked about respect while he still smelled of his mistress's cheap perfume. A cloying, sweet stench.

I let go of the suitcase handle. I turned to face him fully. And I slapped him.

The sound cracked through the room like a whip.

His head snapped to the side. He staggered back, shock on his face.

In our world, women didn't hit men. Especially soldiers.

But I wasn't just a woman. I was a Vitello.

And he had failed me.

"You took an oath," I said softly, stepping closer until he could see nothing but me. "Loyalty or death. Remember?"

He touched his cheek, eyes wide. "Elena..."

"You broke it," I said. "You broke us."

I slapped him again. Backhand this time. Harder.

My palm stung, but the pain grounded me.

He grabbed my wrist. Rage flickered in his eyes.

"Stop! You're insane!"

"I'm not insane, Luca. I'm awake. Finally."

I wrenched free. Almost dislocated my wrist.

He didn't fight to hold on. He was too scared of the marks, too scared of what my father would do if he saw bruises on me.

I grabbed the suitcase.

"My mother needs me for final preparations," I lied, my voice ice. "See you at the wedding."

He stood there. Red-faced. Breathing hard.

He wanted to believe me so badly.

He needed the Vitello alliance too much to question the slap, to question the coldness in my eyes.

"Fine," he spat. "Go. Run to your daddy. But Saturday, you're mine."

I didn't answer.

I walked out. Rode the elevator down to the lobby.

Dante leaned against the hood of his car, smoking.

He saw me. Dropped the cigarette. Crushed it under his boot.

He took the suitcase from me without a word. Threw it in the trunk.

Opened the passenger door for me.

"Did you kill him?" he asked as he slid into the driver's seat, his voice flat.

"No," I said, looking up at the apartment window where a dark figure watched us. "Not yet."