You Can't Buy My Heart, Mr. Vitiello

Elena Rossi POV

Sofia Moretti looked at the drunk man, and then her gaze dropped to her dress. A single drop of spilled champagne marred the pristine white silk.

The room fell into a silence so profound I could hear the ice shifting in the crystal tumblers.

"I'm sorry, Miss Moretti," the drunk stammered, sobering instantly as the realization of who stood behind her crashed over him. "I didn't know—"

Dante didn't raise his voice. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply looked at the man with eyes emptied of all humanity.

"Close your eyes," Dante said to the room. "And get out."

The command wasn't just for the drunk. It was an order for everyone. The soldiers, the waitresses, the hangers-on. They scrambled for the exits, terrified of witnessing what was about to happen.

I stood frozen by the booth, my hand still wet with wine. Dante turned his head slightly, his profile sharp and cruel under the dim lights.

"You too, Elena," he said. "Get out."

The dismissal hit me harder than a physical blow. For three years, I had warmed his bed, listened to his silence, and tended to his wounds. But in the presence of a true equal, I was nothing more than the help.

"Dante—" I started, a foolish plea dying on my lips.

"Now."

I grabbed my purse and walked toward the door, my heels clicking on the marble floor like a countdown to my own expiration. As I passed them, Sofia looked at me. Her gaze wasn't malicious; it was indifferent. She looked at me the way one looks at a piece of furniture that doesn't match the decor.

"Is she the one?" I heard Sofia ask as the door began to close.

"She's nobody," Dante replied. "Just a debt."

I stepped out into the hallway, the heavy door sealing the sound of their reunion behind me. I leaned against the cold wall, gasping for air. *Just a debt.*

The drive back to the Sinan Mansion—or the Vitiello Penthouse, as the deeds declared—was a blur. When I arrived, the apartment felt vast and empty. It was a museum of cold gray stone and modern art, a place designed for intimidation, not living.

I went to the guest room, stripped off the dress Dante had bought me, and stood under the scalding shower until my skin turned red.

That night, the nightmare returned.

I was back in the basement of the casino. My father was on his knees, weeping, his fingers broken. A man in a tailored suit slid a contract across the blood-stained table.

*Sign it, Elena. Three years. Your freedom for his life.*

I woke up gasping, sweat drenching my sheets. The digital clock read 3:00 AM.

The front door beeped. Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Dante was home.

He didn't go to his room. He came straight to mine. The door handle turned, and he filled the frame, smelling of whiskey and her perfume. A floral scent. Lilies.

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

He walked to the bed, loosening his tie. There was a frantic energy in him, a violence simmering just beneath the surface. He looked at me, but I knew he wasn't seeing me. He was seeing the woman he couldn't touch, the alliance he couldn't yet consummate.

"Dante, don't," I whispered, pulling the sheet up.

He ripped the sheet away. "I paid for this time, Elena. Every second of it."

He didn't kiss me. He didn't whisper sweet nothings. He took me with a desperation that felt like hatred. His hands were too hard, his rhythm punishing. He buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply, trying to drown out whatever demons Sofia had awakened in him.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my body rocking with his thrusts. I didn't cry. Tears were a currency he didn't accept.

Instead, I calculated.

My visa application was eighty percent complete. My savings account, hidden under a fake name, had enough for a plane ticket and three months of rent in a city where no one knew the name Vitiello.

He finished with a groan that sounded like pain, collapsing his weight onto me. For a moment, his heart beat against mine—a steady, powerful rhythm that had once made me feel safe.

Now, it just felt like a clock ticking down.

He rolled off, turning his back to me immediately.

"Clean yourself up," he muttered into the pillow. "You smell like cheap soap."

I lay in the dark, the silence stretching between us like a vast ocean. He was right. I smelled like soap. I smelled like a civilian.

And tomorrow, I would smell like freedom.