The sound of the Ming vase shattering was still echoing in Elena's ears, a sharp, crystalline funeral march for her freedom. She stood frozen, her gaze fixed on the jagged blue-and-white shards that littered the marble like broken dreams.
Dante didn't move. He didn't shout. He didn't even flinch. That was the most terrifying part. A man who roared was predictable; a man who went silent was calculating the cost of your soul.
"Do you have any idea what that was?" he asked, his voice dangerously smooth.
"I... I'm sorry," Elena stammered, her hands shaking so violently she had to tuck them behind her back. "It was an accident. I'll pay for it. I'll—"
"Pay for it?" Dante let out a short, humorless bark of a laugh. He stepped over the debris, the soles of his polished shoes crunching against the porcelain. "That was a gift from a Triad boss to my grandfather. It's worth more than the bakery you work in, the apartment you sleep in, and the life your brother wasted on a poker table."
He stopped just inches from her, his shadow looming over her like a dark shroud. "You don't have enough years in your life to pay for that, Elena Rossi."
The Interrogation
Before she could protest, the heavy oak doors of the salon swung open. Two men in dark suits—guards she hadn't seen before—entered. They didn't look at the mess. They only looked at Dante, waiting for a command.
"Take her to the library," Dante ordered, never breaking eye contact with Elena. "And call Marco. I want a full sweep of her 'quiet life' by noon."
"No! Please," Elena cried out as the guards moved toward her. One of them gripped her arm firmly but without unnecessary cruelty. "I told you, I'm nobody! My brother just needed help!"
Dante turned away, picking up his glass from the mantelpiece. "In this city, nobody is ever just 'nobody.' Everyone is a piece on a board. I just haven't figured out whose side you're playing for yet."
The library was less of a room and more of a cathedral of leather-bound secrets. High shelves stretched toward a vaulted ceiling, and the scent of old paper and tobacco hung heavy in the air. Elena was pushed into a velvet armchair, the guards standing like statues by the door.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, casting long, dusty beams across the floor. Every time a floorboard creaked, Elena jumped. Her mind was a whirlwind of regret and hatred. She hated Leo for being weak. She hated Dante for being a monster. But most of all, she hated herself for the way her skin had hummed when Dante touched her jaw in the salon.
The door opened again, and Dante walked in. He wasn't carrying a drink this time; he was carrying a tablet. He sat across from her, his legs crossed with an effortless grace that made her feel even smaller.
"Elena Rossi," he began, scrolling through the screen. "Twenty-three. Top of your class in culinary school. No criminal record. You spend your Sundays volunteering at a soup kitchen on 5th and your Tuesdays teaching literacy at the community center."
He looked up, his grey-blue eyes searching hers. "You're disgustingly clean, Elena. It's almost suspicious."
"Because I'm not a criminal!" she snapped, finding a spark of her old fire. "I make bread. I read books. I don't belong in a house where people break vases that cost more than lives!"
Dante leaned forward, the tablet in his hand glowing like a branding iron in the dim library. Elena's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm of hatred and fear. She waited for the blow—for him to reveal the secret she had only just started to process herself.
"Elena Rossi," he murmured, his eyes tracking the lines on the screen. "You're a ghost. No social media. No debt besides your brother's. Just a girl who makes sourdough and hides in the shadows of the North Side."
He flicked the screen off, the sudden darkness in the room making his silhouette even more imposing.
"I thought you were a plant," Dante continued, standing up. He walked toward her, stopping just close enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne—expensive, cold, and suffocating. "I thought you were sent to get under my skin, to find a weakness. But you're not a spy. You're just... a mistake."
The word "mistake" cut deeper than any threat. Elena flinched, her hand instinctively hovering near her stomach before she forced it to drop. He doesn't know, she realized with a jolt of pure adrenaline. The report Marco found wasn't the blood test. It was the background check.
"I want to go home," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Home?" Dante laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "You broke a piece of my history today, Elena. You owe me more than your brother could ever pay in ten lifetimes."
He reached out, his gloved fingers catching a stray lock of her dark hair. He wound it around his finger, pulling her head back just enough to force her to look into his icy gaze. For a second, the slow burn of the previous night flared between them—a flicker of unwanted heat that made Elena's breath hitch.
Then, he let go as if he had been burned.
"Get her out of my sight," Dante barked at the guards. "Drive her to the edge of the district and drop her. If I ever see you near the Velvet Room again, or if I find out you've spoken a single word about what you saw in this house, I won't just take your bakery. I'll take everything."
The Rain on the Pavement
The guards weren't gentle. They marched her out of the cathedral-like estate and shoved her into the back of a blacked-out SUV.
Twenty minutes later, the door opened to a desolate stretch of road under the "L" tracks. The sky had turned a bruised purple, and a cold Chicago rain had begun to fall, slicking the pavement.
"Out," the guard grunted.
Elena stepped onto the wet asphalt, her thin green dress offering no protection against the wind. The SUV sped off, splashing muddy water onto her hem. She stood there, shivering, the weight of the last twenty-four hours finally crashing down on her.
She was free. Dante Moretti had looked at her with regret and discarded her like a broken toy. He didn't want her.