Chapter 6: Ten Days Left

Elena Vitiello POV

Ten days.

That was all I had left inside the Moretti cage.

Ten mornings of walking through marble halls that echoed with footsteps that were never mine.

Ten nights of sleeping beside a man who had mistaken my silence for peace.

Ten days of pretending I was still his wife.

I stood in front of the mirror in the master bathroom and pinned my hair into a low knot. My hands did not shake. That pleased me.

Fear was a luxury I could no longer afford.

Downstairs, the estate was already preparing for another Moretti gathering. Caterers moved through the kitchen. Soldiers checked exits. Maria directed staff with quiet efficiency.

Dante was in the study with Marco and two Capos, his voice low enough that I couldn't hear the words, but sharp enough that everyone else stood straighter.

He was born to command men.

He had never learned how to love a woman.

I walked past the study without stopping.

"Elena."

His voice caught me at the staircase.

I turned.

Dante stood in the doorway, one hand in his pocket, his dark shirt rolled at the sleeves. The cut on his back had not slowed him down. Nothing did.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the florist."

"Why?"

"Because the white roses are dead."

A flicker crossed his face.

Small. Almost nothing.

"You didn't like them?"

I smiled politely.

"They were beautiful."

"That wasn't what I asked."

I looked at him then.

Really looked.

For years, I had wanted this. His attention. His questions. His eyes on me as if something I felt might matter.

Now that I had it, I felt nothing but exhaustion.

"No," I said. "I didn't like them."

His jaw tightened.

"You never said that before."

"You never asked before."

The study behind him went silent.

Dante noticed. His eyes hardened, but not at me. At the men listening.

"Leave us," he ordered.

Chairs scraped. Shoes moved. Marco passed me with his head slightly lowered, smart enough not to meet my eyes.

When we were alone, Dante stepped closer.

"Since when do you speak to me like that?"

"Since this morning."

"Elena."

"Dante."

His stare sharpened.

The Reaper could make men confess sins they hadn't committed with that stare.

Once, it might have made me lower my eyes.

Today, I held it.

He looked almost offended by my courage.

"What is happening to you?" he asked.

A laugh nearly escaped me.

What was happening to me?

I was becoming alive.

That was all.

"Nothing," I said. "I'm just tired."

"You've been tired for weeks."

"I've been tired for years."

He went very still.

There it was.

A truth sharp enough to cut through his arrogance.

For one second, only one, I saw confusion on his face. Not anger. Not command. Confusion.

As if a chair had spoken.

As if the curtains had accused him.

His phone rang.

We both looked at it.

Sofia.

The name glowed on the screen like a curse.

Dante didn't answer immediately.

That should have felt like victory.

It didn't.

Because after three years, even hesitation felt insulting.

"Take it," I said.

"Elena—"

"Take it. You always do."

I walked away before he could decide whether to prove me wrong.

The driver took me to the florist, but I did not buy flowers.

I bought a black suitcase from a boutique two streets over.

Nothing flashy. Nothing monogrammed. Something a woman could carry through an airport without being remembered.

Then I went to a small bank where no Moretti account existed and collected the last envelope Isabella had arranged for me.

Cash.

New identification.

A key card for the San Francisco apartment.

A life folded into paper and plastic.

The woman behind the counter never looked at me twice.

I nearly thanked her for that.

On the ride home, Dante called twice.

I watched the number flash across the screen.

Once.

Twice.

I did not answer.

When I returned to the penthouse, he was waiting.

Not in his study.

Not on a call.

In the foyer.

Like a husband.

Like a warden.

"Where were you?" he asked.

"Out."

"I called."

"I saw."

"You didn't answer."

"No."

His eyes dropped to the shopping bag in my hand.

"What's that?"

"A suitcase."

"For San Francisco?"

"Yes."

"You leave in ten days."

"I know."

"Why are you preparing now?"

Because I am not coming back.

Because every second in this house feels like breathing underwater.

Because if I don't pack slowly, I might run screaming into the street.

"I like to be organized," I said.

He studied me.

This time, he did not look convinced.

For a heartbeat, the air between us changed.

The predator inside him lifted its head.

Dante Moretti, at last, smelled something wrong.

But then Sofia saved me.

Again.

His phone rang, and this time he answered.

"What happened?"

I watched his face shift.

Cold husband into urgent savior.

My prison door opened by another woman's helplessness.

I walked past him while he spoke.

Upstairs, I locked the bedroom door.

Then I opened the new suitcase and placed three things inside.

My passport.

The burner phone.

And the ash-smudged platinum ring I had pulled from the fireplace that morning.

I didn't know why I kept it.

Maybe as proof.

Maybe as evidence.

Maybe because some wounds needed a relic.

That night, Dante did not come to bed.

I sat on the floor beside the suitcase and listened to the distant murmur of his voice through the walls.

Sofia's name came once.

Then again.

Then silence.

I zipped the suitcase shut.

Nine days.

I had survived three years.

I could survive nine more days.

But downstairs, in the dark heart of the Moretti estate, Dante Moretti was no longer fully distracted.

And a man like Dante did not ignore suspicion for long.