Elena sat at the end of the long dining table, her fingers absently tracing a stain on the tablecloth. Tomato sauce, spilled at four that afternoon, now dried into a dark crimson spot. From the kitchen came the faint hum of the oven where she was reheating Italian lasagna for the third time.

The old wall clock read seventeen minutes past midnight. In the silence, each tick of its brass hands echoed like a reminder of wasted hours. Only a single bulb burned in the crystal chandelier, casting her shadow across the oak floor—a lonely fracture in the dim yellow light.

She rose and padded toward the kitchen, her wooden slippers creaking against the floor. When she opened the oven door, a blast of heat rushed to her face, carrying the aroma of Parmesan and basil. She prodded the edge of the crust with a fork; the cheese had melted and resolidified too many times, now looking sad and shriveled. With a soft sigh, she slid the plate back inside.

Back at the dining table, she opened her notebook. The pages were crammed with neat handwriting—everything she needed to tell Vincent today: the dock warehouse rent had gone up, the new accountant needed vetting, old Vito's nephew wanted in on the family business. She'd written it all meticulously, just as the nuns had taught her as a child, each letter precise and proper.

At one in the morning, the growl of a car engine cut through the silence. The sound felt like a warning in the quiet night. Elena's back stiffened instinctively, her fingers clutching the tablecloth.

Footsteps approached from the entrance—heavy and dragging. Vincent's leather shoes clicked sharply against the marble floor, each step bringing him closer.

Elena stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. She wore dark green with white lace at the collar—Vincent had once mentioned the color brought out her eyes.

The door swung open, bringing with it a cloud of whiskey, cigar smoke, and women's perfume. Vincent stood in the doorway, tie hanging loose, the top buttons of his shirt missing entirely. His blond hair was tousled, but what caught her eye was the vivid red lipstick mark on his collar—fresh, as though it had just been planted there.

"Still up?" His voice rasped, rough with alcohol.

Elena shook her head, gesturing toward the kitchen—offering to heat his food. But Vincent had already crossed the room in unsteady strides, stopping just short of her. The perfume hit her again—a cloying sweetness with notes of something bold and sharp. Not a scent she would ever wear.

"Don't bother," he said, yanking his tie loose and tossing it onto the table. "Already ate."

Elena's fingers knotted together. Vincent's deep blue eyes were bloodshot, holding something dark and unreadable. When he stepped closer, she instinctively backed away until the dining table edge pressed against her spine.

"What?" Vincent's lips curled into a smile that reminded her of the feral dogs she'd seen as a child—all teeth and barely contained savagery.

"Scared of me?"

From Torment To Tenderness:The Mafia Heir 's Mate Wife — Chapter 8

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