You Can't Buy My Heart, Mr. Vitiello

Elena Rossi POV

"Practice is over, Dante."

I whispered the words to the empty air, but they tasted like ash on my tongue.

Dante was asleep on the leather sofa, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the city lights bleeding in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. His phone sat on the coffee table, vibrating with a persistence that demanded attention.

I shouldn't have looked. I knew the rules. *Omertà*. Privacy. Know your place.

But the screen lit up, and the message was right there, a glowing white scar cutting through the darkness.

*Sofia: I’m not ready, Dante. It’s been too long.*

My eyes drifted up to the previous message, the one he had sent minutes before he dragged me down onto the cushions. Minutes before he kissed me with that desperate, terrifying hunger.

*Dante: I’ll wait. I’ll practice.*

The air was punched from my lungs.

I wasn't a person to him. I wasn't even a mistress. I was a sparring partner. A warm body he used to rehearse his passion so he wouldn't fumble when he finally touched the woman who actually mattered.

He was perfecting his technique on me so he could be perfect for her.

I sat there in the silence until the sun began to bleed through the smog of Los Angeles. When Dante finally stirred, groaning as the hangover hit him, I was already standing by the door with my bag.

He sat up, rubbing his temples. He looked at me, his eyes bloodshot and devoid of the vulnerability he had shown last night. The Capo was back.

"You're still here," he rasped, his voice rough with sleep.

"I was just leaving."

He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a checkbook. The sound of the pen scratching against the paper was deafening in the silent room. He tore the check out and held it toward me.

Three million dollars.

"A bonus," he said, his voice flat, businesslike. "For the last three years. And for last night."

I stared at the piece of paper. It was enough to buy a house. Enough to buy a new life. But right now, it looked like payment for services rendered.

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

He frowned, his hand still extended. "Don't be stupid, Elena. Take the money. You have nothing."

"I have my name," I said, my voice steady. "And I'm taking it back."

I didn't take the check. Eventually, his hand dropped, and the paper fluttered to the floor, landing face down on the dusty concrete.

"Clean up any trace of yourself before you go," he said, already turning his back to me to hunt for his cigarettes. "Sofia is coming by later to look at the space. I don't want her to find a stray hair tie and get upset."

He didn't look at me as he said it. He was already lighting up, the flame flaring, his mind already moving on to the next item on his agenda.

I walked to the kitchen. I took the mug I used for coffee every morning and dropped it into the trash. The ceramic shattered. I went to the bathroom and retrieved my toothbrush.

I walked back to the living room.

"Goodbye, Dante," I said.

He waved a hand dismissively, smoke curling around his head like a halo of vice. "Yeah. Close the door."

I walked out. The heavy steel door clicked shut behind me.

It was the sound of a prison cell finally opening.