Chapter 8: Three Days

Elena Vitiello POV

Three days.

The number echoed through my mind like a prayer.

Three days until San Francisco.

Three days until freedom.

Three days until Dante Moretti woke up and discovered that the woman he had ignored for three years had finally disappeared.

The thought should have made me happy.

Instead, it made me strangely numb.

Perhaps because freedom wasn't a destination anymore.

It was survival.

The next morning, I woke up alone.

Again.

Dante hadn't come to bed.

I found him downstairs in the gym.

The rhythmic impact of fists against a punching bag echoed through the room.

He wasn't wearing a shirt.

Sweat covered his skin.

The stitched wound on his back stretched every time he threw a punch.

He looked furious.

Not violent.

Furious.

As if he was fighting something he couldn't kill.

I should have left.

Instead, I paused in the doorway.

The punching bag swung violently.

Dante hit it again.

And again.

And again.

The chains rattled against the ceiling.

"You are going to reopen your stitches."

His fist stopped midair.

Slowly, he turned toward me.

His chest rose and fell heavily.

"Good morning," he said.

"Is it?"

"Depends."

"On Sofia?"

His jaw clenched.

Score one for me.

"No."

"Then that's progress."

The silence that followed was dangerous.

Not because he was angry.

Because he was thinking.

I hated when Dante thought too much.

It usually ended badly for someone.

"You've changed," he said finally.

"People do that."

"Not this quickly."

I shrugged.

"Maybe you just weren't paying attention before."

That landed.

I saw it.

A brief flash behind his eyes.

Guilt.

Gone almost immediately.

But there.

I turned and walked away before he could recover.

For the rest of the day, the estate felt strange.

The staff seemed nervous.

The guards looked tense.

Something was happening.

By evening, I found out what.

"There was an attack this morning," Maria whispered while setting the table.

"On who?"

"Miss Sofia."

Of course.

"Is she hurt?"

"No. The Underboss handled it."

Naturally.

Dante could move mountains when Sofia sneezed.

At dinner, his phone rang four times.

Every call came from her.

The first three he answered.

The fourth he declined.

I almost dropped my fork.

Dante noticed.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Say it."

"You ignored her call."

"So?"

"The world might be ending."

His lips twitched.

Not quite a smile.

But close.

"You're funny lately."

"I'm dying lately."

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

His expression immediately darkened.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"Elena."

"Forget it."

"No."

The command snapped through the room.

Every servant instantly vanished.

Doors closed.

Footsteps retreated.

Suddenly it was just us.

"Tell me."

"Why?"

"Because I asked."

"That's not a reason."

His eyes narrowed.

"Since when do you challenge me?"

"Since I stopped caring about the consequences."

The temperature in the room dropped.

Neither of us spoke.

I looked down at my untouched food.

Dante stared at me.

Then something unexpected happened.

"Did I hurt you?"

The question hit harder than a slap.

Not because of what he asked.

Because he genuinely didn't know.

Three years.

Three years of loneliness.

Three years of humiliation.

Three years of coming second.

And he still didn't know.

"You don't want the answer to that."

"Yes, I do."

"No."

I pushed my chair back.

"You really don't."

I left him sitting there.

For the first time since our marriage began, Dante didn't stop me.

That night, I packed the rest of my suitcase.

Every important document.

Every piece of cash.

Every memory worth keeping.

Everything else stayed.

The jewelry.

The designer clothes.

The gifts.

The prison.

Near midnight, my phone buzzed.

Mia.

"Everything okay?"

"Yes."

"You sound nervous."

"I am."

"Two more days."

"I know."

"Can you make it?"

I looked toward the bedroom door.

Toward the hallway.

Toward the entire life I was about to abandon.

"I have to."

"What if he finds out?"

I swallowed hard.

"Then I run faster."

After the call ended, I sat alone in the darkness.

The city lights glittered beyond the windows.

Beautiful.

Cold.

Temporary.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.

I froze.

"Elena."

Dante.

I didn't answer.

"Elena."

Another knock.

"What?"

"Open the door."

"Why?"

Silence.

Then:

"I wanted to talk."

I almost laughed.

Three years.

Three years.

And now he wanted to talk.

"I'm tired."

"Please."

The word shocked me.

Dante Moretti didn't say please.

Not to anyone.

I closed my eyes.

Then I stood.

Walked to the door.

Placed my hand on the handle.

And stopped.

Because if I opened it, I knew exactly what would happen.

He would look at me.

Maybe apologize.

Maybe explain.

Maybe finally see me.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Because I only had two days left.

And I couldn't afford to love him again.