You Can't Buy My Heart, Mr. Vitiello

My father sold me to the Vitiello Crime Family to settle a three-million-dollar gambling debt.

For three years, I was Dante Vitiello’s property. I warmed his bed, tended his wounds, and let him own every part of me.

I thought I was earning my freedom. I thought I mattered.

Then his "true queen," the Mafia Princess Sofia, returned to the city.

Dante pushed me off his lap the moment she walked into the room. He ordered me to leave because, in the presence of his equal, I was nothing more than "the help."

The humiliation didn't stop there.

He evicted me from the penthouse to renovate it for her.

At a gala, he outbid me for my grandmother’s heirloom bracelet—my family's last scrap of dignity—just to gift it to Sofia in front of the entire city.

But the final blow came when he came to my bed drunk one last time.

He kissed me with a desperate hunger, whispering that he was only "practicing" his technique on me so he would be perfect for her.

I realized then that I wasn't a person to him. I was a training dummy. A debt with a pulse.

He told me to wait for him while he took her to Paris. He thought I would stay in the kennel like a good pet.

He was wrong.

While he was gone, I accepted a surgical fellowship in Switzerland.

I snapped my SIM card in half, left his millions on the floor, and boarded a one-way flight.

By the time the Wolf comes home to find his cage empty, I will be gone.

Chapter 1

Elena Rossi POV

I was scanning the final clause of my witness protection application when the phone buzzed against my palm. It was a message from the man who held the deed to my soul, and reading it made my blood run cold.

"Five minutes. Azure. Don't make me come get you."

My heart hammered against my ribs, wild and frantic, like a bird throwing itself against the bars of a cage.

On the surface, I was Elena Rossi, a scholarship student at Caltech with a mysterious, wealthy benefactor. In reality, I was a line item in a ledger, a debt repayment plan with a pulse and a womb.

"He's so romantic," my roommate Rory sighed, leaning over my shoulder to peer at the screen. She didn't see the threat. She only saw the name attached to it.

Dante.

"Most guys wait three days to text. He demands you in five minutes. That is some serious alpha energy."

She reached out and traced the diamond necklace resting against my collarbone. It was cold, heavy, and sharp. To her, it was a gift worth a year's tuition. To me, it was a collar.

"It's not romance, Rory," I said, grabbing my coat with trembling fingers. "It's inventory management."

I didn't have time to explain that my father’s gambling addiction had cost three million dollars, and I was the currency used to settle the balance with the Vitiello Crime Family.

So I ran.

The Los Angeles night air was thick and humid, but inside the black SUV waiting at the curb, the atmosphere was sterile and chilled. The driver, a man with a scar bisecting his eyebrow, didn't speak. He didn't need to. We both knew the rules.

Omertà. Silence.

The Azure VIP Lounge wasn't just a club. It was a fortress of glass and steel where the law didn't apply, a front for the New York Outfit's West Coast operations. The bass from the music thrummed through the floorboards, shaking my bones, but the VIP section was soundproofed, sealed off like a vacuum.

I was two minutes late.

Dante Vitiello sat in the center of the leather booth, a king on a throne of vice and shadows. He was wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than my parents' house, his top button undone to reveal the tanned skin of his throat. He held a glass of amber liquid, his fingers long and dangerous.

He didn't look up when I entered. He just tapped his watch.

"You're slipping, Elena."

His voice was low, a rumble of thunder that promised a storm. The men around him—soldiers, killers, captains—fell silent.

"Traffic," I lied.

"Come here."

It wasn't a request. It was a command given to a dog.

I walked over, my legs feeling like lead. He didn't make space for me on the seat. Instead, he caught my wrist and pulled me down onto his lap. His hand settled on my waist, his thumb digging into the soft flesh through my dress. It was a possessive claim, a display of ownership for his subordinates.

I smelled him then—tobacco, expensive scotch, and the metallic tang of something sharp. Gun oil. Or maybe blood.

"Smile," he whispered against my ear. "You look like you're attending a funeral."

"Maybe I am," I whispered back, risking his wrath.

His grip tightened, bruising. "Careful, *tesoro*. You know the price of disrespect."

Before I could answer, the heavy double doors swung open. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The casual menace evaporated, replaced by a tense, respectful rigidness.

A woman walked in.

She was stunning, a vision in white amidst a sea of black suits. Her hair was dark silk, her eyes flashing with entitlement and fear. She was being harassed by a drunk associate near the door, a low-level earner who didn't recognize royalty when he saw it.

I felt Dante's body go rigid beneath me. The hand on my waist didn't just loosen; it vanished.

He stood up, dislodging me from his lap without a second thought. I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of the table, humiliated as wine sloshed onto my hand.

But Dante didn't look at me. He was walking toward the woman, his stride predatory and focused.

"Sofia," he said.

The name hung in the air like a prayer and a curse.

I froze. I knew that name. Sofia Moretti. The daughter of the Chicago Don. The woman the Vitiello family had been trying to secure for a strategic alliance for a decade.

The Mafia Princess.

And as Dante placed a protective hand on her back, shielding her from the drunk, I realized something that made my escape plan feel futile.

I wasn't just a debt payment. I was the placeholder. And the real owner of the house had just come home.