Vittoria's Mark

The first thing I registered was the thread count. The sheets were impossibly smooth, cool silk against my skin, a stark contrast to the sandpaper rasp in my throat. The second thing was the arm draped possessively over my waist, its weight both a comfort and a cage. I didn’t recognize the scent in the air—something clean and severe, like gin and winter.

My eyes snapped open. This wasn’t my apartment. The room was a study in minimalist luxury: charcoal grey walls, a floor-to-ceiling window showcasing a glittering, indifferent city skyline, and furniture that cost more than my life. I was in Vittoria Corrado’s penthouse safe house.

And she was in bed with me.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced the fog of my hangover. I tried to move, to disentangle myself, but the arm tightened. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Don't wake her. Don't make a sound.

Vittoria Corrado, the Godmother of the Corrado family, did not like to be disturbed.

My gaze fell upon the hand resting on my stomach. Long, elegant fingers, a single, severe silver ring on her index finger. And a dark, crescent-shaped indentation on the back of her hand, just below the knuckles. A bite mark. Fresh.

A sickening jolt of memory, fractured and incomplete, flashed through my mind. The smoky haze of the private lounge after the negotiation with the O’Malleys. The clink of glasses. Vittoria, looking unusually relaxed, pouring me another scotch. Her rare, small smile. Then… shouting? Laughter? Nothing. A black void.

What did I do?

Slowly, carefully, I lifted her hand. It was cool to the touch, like marble. I slid out from under her arm, my movements agonizingly slow. The silk sheets whispered their betrayal. I held my breath. Vittoria didn’t stir. Her breathing was a deep, even rhythm in the silent room.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my feet sinking into a plush rug. My clothes were gone. In their place, I wore a ridiculously soft silk pajama shirt that was obviously hers. It smelled of that sharp winter scent. A flush of heat, part shame and part something else I refused to name, crawled up my neck. On the floor, my own clothes lay in a discarded heap, a crime scene of their own.

I had to get out. Disappear back to my own apartment. Pretend this never happened. Because in our world, a night like this wasn't an awkward HR incident. It was a complication. And Vittoria Corrado did not tolerate complications.

As I tiptoed towards my discarded clothes, a flicker of movement in the massive, wall-mounted mirror caught my eye. I stopped, my blood running cold. Peeking out from the collar of the silk shirt, just above my clavicle, was a dark, ugly bruise. A love bite. Not just one. A constellation of them, angry and purple against my pale skin.

The image of the bite mark on her hand returned. A fair trade, then. The thought was hysterical, unbidden.

“Leaving so soon, Elina?”

The voice was quiet, laced with sleep, but it held the authority of a death sentence. I froze, my back to her. My name on her lips—not my call sign, “Lina,” used for business, but my real name, Elina—felt like an intimate brand.

“I… I didn’t want to wake you,” I stammered, my voice a pathetic croak.

“Too late.”

I heard the rustle of sheets as she sat up. I couldn’t bring myself to turn around. I just stared at my reflection, at the evidence of a night I couldn’t remember but my body couldn’t deny.

“Last night,” I began, forcing the words out. “The negotiations were… stressful. I drank too much. I apologize for any… unruliness.”

Unruliness. That was the word she used for insubordination. It was a mild term for an offense that usually ended with a car ride to the docks.

The silence stretched, thin and sharp. Then, I heard her bare feet on the rug. She was behind me. I could feel the heat radiating from her body. Her scent enveloped me.

“You were unruly,” she agreed, her voice a low murmur directly behind my ear. I flinched as her fingers gently brushed the back of my neck, tracing the edge of the pajama collar. “But you were not the only one who was… careless.”

Her other hand came into view in the mirror, the one with the bite mark. She held it up, examining the teeth marks with a detached curiosity.

“You have sharp teeth, Elina.”

I swallowed hard. “Vittoria… Donna Corrado… I don’t remember.”

“I know,” she said. And the chilling part was that there was no anger in her voice. Only a flat, final certainty. “It’s better that way.” She stepped back, the warmth receding. “Get dressed. Sofia will be here in an hour with a new burner phone for you. The one you had last night ended up in the scotch pitcher.”

I finally dared to turn. She was standing by the bed, already pulling on a fresh silk robe, her posture once again erect and untouchable. Her dark hair was a wild cascade around her shoulders, a stark contrast to her usually severe bun. Her eyes met mine, cool and assessing, and for a fleeting second, I saw something else in their depths. Not anger, not amusement. Something that looked unnervingly like possession.

“This night did not happen,” she stated, and her voice was returning to its familiar, commanding tone. “It was a lapse in judgment. A symptom of a completed, successful operation. It will not be repeated. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Donna Corrado,” I whispered, my gaze dropping to the floor.

“Good,” she said, turning her back on me to walk towards the en-suite bathroom. “Now cover your neck. It’s unseemly.”