The Betrayed Princess's New Reign

Elena Moretti POV:

The morning sun poured through the massive French windows of our Long Island estate, casting long, golden blocks of light across the thick Persian rug.

I shifted beneath the heavy down comforter. I reached my hand out, searching blindly for the solid, hot wall of Dante's chest. My fingers brushed against empty, cool sheets.

I opened my eyes, blinking away the sleep. A faint, rhythmic clinking sound echoed up from the kitchen downstairs. A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth.

I slipped out of bed, pulling a white silk robe over my bare shoulders. I walked barefoot down the grand spiral staircase, following the rich, dark scent of freshly ground coffee.

I stopped at the edge of the kitchen. I leaned against the marble doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest, and just watched.

The man who controlled the entire American underworld—the ruthless tyrant who had ordered the execution of three rival bosses last week—was standing at the stove. He was wearing a ridiculous, bright pink apron over his black dress shirt.

Dante smoothly flipped a sunny-side-up egg in the copper skillet with one hand. With his other hand, he poured boiling water in slow, precise circles over the coffee grounds in a Chemex.

He felt my eyes on him. He didn't startle. He slowly turned his head, his sharp, lethal features instantly melting into something impossibly soft.

He set the kettle down, walked over, and cupped my jaw. He kissed me deeply, tasting like mint and dark coffee. "Good morning, my queen," he murmured.

He pulled out a high-backed leather stool at the marble island and gestured for me to sit. He plated the eggs and slid the perfect cup of coffee in front of me.

I picked up my knife and sliced into the egg. The golden yolk spilled out perfectly. I took a bite, savoring the taste. I looked past Dante, through the glass doors leading to the back lawn.

The morning frost still clung to the grass. Five-year-old Leo was out there, wearing a custom-made, miniature black tactical suit. He was throwing punches at a heavy bag, sweating profusely.

Two massive, scarred ex-Special Forces instructors stood on either side of him. They barked orders, offering zero leniency for the fact that he was the heir to a billion-dollar empire.

Leo threw a high kick. His foot slipped on the wet grass. He went down hard, tumbling over his shoulder. His bare knee scraped violently against the frozen dirt, tearing the skin. Bright red blood instantly welled up.

My breath caught. My maternal instinct flared, and I instantly pushed my chair back, ready to run outside and check on him.

Dante's heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder. He pressed me firmly back into my seat.

"Leave him," Dante said, his voice calm and unyielding. "The men of this family must learn how to stand up while they are bleeding. No one is going to save him out there."

I clenched my jaw, but I stayed in the chair. I looked back out the window.

Leo didn't cry. He didn't look toward the house for help. He gritted his teeth, pushed himself up from the bloody grass, and wiped his knee with the back of his hand. He settled back into a flawless fighting stance and threw another punch.

Pride swelled in my chest, hot and fierce. My son would never be a weak, pampered prince. He was a wolf.

An hour later, the domestic peace vanished.

Dante stood in the grand foyer. The pink apron was gone, replaced by a bespoke charcoal suit. He was back to being the Reaper.

His chief assistant stood nervously by the door, holding a stack of urgent files. He handed Dante a red folder. "Sir, the European port expansion. The Corsican syndicate is refusing to sell their docks."

Dante adjusted his silk tie in the mirror. "Send the strike team tonight. Burn their warehouses to the ground and execute the leadership. Leave the bodies on the docks for the morning shift to find."

His voice was dead. He ordered a massacre as casually as ordering a coffee.

I walked down the stairs. I was wearing a razor-sharp, white Armani power suit. The heels of my stilettos clicked loudly against the marble.

I walked straight up to Dante. I snatched the red folder right out of his hands. I didn't even look at it before I shoved it directly into the heavy-duty paper shredder sitting on the console table.

The machine shrieked, chewing the execution order into tiny ribbons of trash.

Dante stopped tying his tie. He slowly turned his head to look at me. He didn't yell. He raised one dark eyebrow, waiting for me to explain why I had just countermanded a direct mafia order.

I pulled a sleek, black iPad from my leather portfolio and slapped it flat against his chest.

"Bullets are loud, messy, and draw the FBI," I said, my voice dripping with cold authority. "We are shorting their holding companies. Once our IPO goes live this afternoon, we will use the capital influx to launch a hostile takeover of their parent corporation. We won't just take their docks. We will legally steal their bank accounts, their ships, and the pensions of every man working for them."

I tapped the screen, pulling up the financial algorithms I had built. "Capital is a cleaner weapon than gunpowder."

Dante stared at the numbers. He processed the sheer, devastating cruelty of my financial strategy. His eyes darkened. A fanatical, primitive lust flared in his gaze.

He dropped his hands from his tie. He grabbed my waist, hauled me flush against his body, and crushed his mouth to mine. It was a kiss of pure worship.

The assistant instantly spun around, staring hard at the front door, pretending he didn't exist.

Dante pulled back, his breathing ragged. "You're right," he rasped. "Every account, every wire transfer. It all belongs to you. Gut them."

Outside the heavy oak doors, the engines of twelve armored SUVs roared to life, shaking the gravel driveway.

I got into the car, glancing at my Patek Philippe watch, eyes sharp: "Let's go. Let's show Wall Street our hand."