The return to the manor was a silent funeral procession. Dante didn't speak as he carried Elena back through the service entrance, her muddy boots dripping onto the pristine floor. He didn't drop her until they reached the center of the grand foyer, where the entire household staff was already lined up in a row of trembling shadows.
In the center of the line stood Rosa. Her head was bowed, her apron wrinkled, and her hands—the ones that had given Elena the key—were shaking.
"Dante, don't," Elena whispered, her voice raw from the wind. "She didn't do anything. I stole the card."
Dante didn't even look at her. He stripped off his tactical gloves, his eyes fixed on Marco. "Who was responsible for the service wing tonight?"
"Rosa, sir," Marco replied, his voice a flat line.
Dante stepped toward the elderly woman. The air in the foyer turned heavy, pressurized by his silent fury. "I trusted you with the comfort of my guest, Rosa. I didn't realize you were moonlighting as a travel agent."
"Please, sir," Rosa whimpered. "The girl... she was so sad."
Dante's hand moved faster than Elena could scream. He didn't strike her, but he slammed his palm against the wall beside Rosa's head, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "Sadness doesn't get people killed in this house. Disobedience does."
"Stop it!" Elena lunged forward, grabbing Dante's arm. "You want to punish someone? Punish me! I'm the one who ran!"
Dante spun around, his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying intensity. "You want to be responsible, Elena? Fine. You want to see the 'truth' of why I keep you here? You want to see what happens when I let you 'run'?"
He grabbed her coatless arm and dragged her toward the front doors. "Marco, take Rosa to the basement. Don't touch her yet. I want Elena to see what she's 'running' to first."
The drive was short, ending at a dilapidated tenement building in the heart of the North Side. The smell of trash and rot was a stark contrast to the lilies of the Moretti estate.
Dante kicked open a door at the end of a damp hallway. Inside, the room was lit by a single, flickering bulb.
Leo was there. But he wasn't the brother Elena remembered. He was curled in a corner, his face a map of purple bruises and dried blood. Two men—men wearing the crimson colors of the Valli family—stood over him.
"El?" Leo croaked, squinting through a swollen eye. "El, run! They're waiting for you!"
The Valli men moved, but Dante was quicker. He didn't draw a gun; he moved with a brutal, practiced efficiency that left both men on the floor in seconds. He didn't kill them—he wanted them to crawl back to Bianca with a message.
Dante turned to Elena, who was staring at her brother in horror. "This is your 'freedom,' Elena. This is what happens the moment my guards aren't around you. Bianca Valli doesn't care about your sourdough. She cares that you're carrying the only thing I've ever loved more than power."
The word loved hung in the air, unacknowledged and heavy.
"Is this what you wanted?" Dante shouted over Leo's groans. "You want to raise my child in a basement while the Valli family uses your brother for target practice?"
Elena sank to her knees, reaching out for Leo's hand. The hatred she felt for Dante was suddenly muddied by a sickening realization: He was right. She was a target, and her innocence was a death sentence.
When they returned to the estate, the foyer was still empty, but the silence was gone. The sound of muffled sobbing drifted up from the vents.
Dante stood by the stairs, his shirt stained with the blood of the Valli enforcers. "Rosa is still in the basement, Elena. I told Marco to wait for your word."
Elena looked at him, her eyes dead. "My word?"
"You wanted to be responsible," Dante said, his voice dropping to a low, cruel caress. "If I let her go, it shows weakness. In my world, weakness is an invitation for more people like those men in the basement to come for you. If I punish her, you stay safe. So, tell me... do you want to be 'free' at the cost of her blood, or do you want to be mine at the cost of her safety?"
Elena felt the golden cage shrink until it was pressing against her very soul. She looked at the man she hated—the man who was currently the only thing standing between her brother and a grave.
"Let her go," Elena whispered. "Let her go, and I'll never try to leave again."
Dante walked toward her, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, wiping away a smear of Leo's blood. "A wise choice, little bird."
He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "Now, go to your room. Tomorrow, we start the wedding preparations. If you're going to be the mother of a Moretti, you're going to have the name to match."