Chapter 8: A Ruined Dress

Elena/Ileana Pov

I was checking my phone when my bedroom door swung open.

I barely had time to slide the device beneath my pillow before a maid walked in.

Seriously?

Did nobody in this house know how to knock?

I sat up slowly and looked at the woman standing in front of me.

She didn’t apologize for barging into my room, nor did she look the least bit guilty.

Judging by the arrogant posture and the cold tilt of her head, I was beginning to realize that the Bellucci servants treated Ileana just as terribly as her family did.

Wonderful. Even the staff had decided she was fair game.

The maid carried a black dress draped over her arm. She walked over to the bed, dropped the garment onto the mattress, and dusted her hands together as though she had just completed some thoroughly unpleasant chore.

“Madam asked me to bring this for you,” she said, her tone flat and completely devoid of respect. “You should get ready. The dinner is in an hour.”

I glanced down at the dress, then back at her face. “It’s only three in the afternoon.”

“And so?”

I stared at her, my emerald green eyes locking onto hers.

She rolled her eyes with an irritated sigh. “Of course. You were locked up in a madhouse for five years. How would you know how things work with the rich and famous?” She gestured dismissively toward the bed. “Just because they call it dinner doesn’t mean it starts at eight in the evening. Get ready.”

I turned my attention back to the garment resting on the bed.

It was a sleeveless, off-the-shoulder black dress, decorated with delicate beading across the bodice.

The material felt decent enough beneath my fingers, and the overall design was elegant in its own quiet way.

But black? For a formal marriage alliance dinner?

I lifted the dress by its hanger, inspecting it from a few different angles. It wasn’t an inappropriate choice for an evening event, but something about the color felt calculated.

Black was for mourning.

The maid noticed my quiet examination and offered a sharp, mocking smile. “Fitting, isn’t it? It’s perfect for you.”

Oh, I was going to kill someone.

Not immediately, of course. I had important plans for the evening, and strangling a maid before I even left the estate would be an inconvenient way to start the night.

Still, the temptation bloomed sharp and vivid in my mind. I imagined grabbing her by the throat, pressing her against the wall, and making sure she never forgot that speaking to me like dirt could be fatal.

Then I took a slow, steady breath.

Calm down, Elena.

Today was too crucial. I had no intention of letting a disrespectful servant shatter my focus. There would be plenty of time to deal with the Belluccis and their loyal dogs later.

For now, I would let this slide.

The maid gave me one last dismissive glance before turning on her heel toward the door.

“Don’t keep everyone waiting.”

And just like that, she vanished down the hallway.

I stared at the closed door, the silence of the room settling back around me. I let out a low sigh. “Unbelievable.”

I looked at the dress again, holding it up against myself in front of the full-length mirror. “Okay, Elena. You can make this work.”

It wasn’t the outfit I would have chosen for myself, but I could manage. I laid the dress carefully across the bed before gathering my toiletries and heading into the adjoining bathroom.

A hot bath, a little time to think, and a few minutes to mentally prepare for the evening ahead.

That was all I needed.

Or so I thought.

When I returned to the bedroom half an hour later, towel-drying my damp raven hair, I stopped dead in my tracks.

For several seconds, I simply stared.

The dress lay on the bed—or rather, what remained of it.

The delicate black fabric had been slashed into ragged strips, the intricate beadwork torn from the bodice. Long, deliberate cuts ran through the skirt, leaving the dress beyond repair.

Someone had taken their time destroying it.

I slowly lowered my towel.

I looked at the bedroom door, which sat slightly ajar, then back at the mutilated garment on the bed.

Silence heavy enough to crush a person filled the room.

A few long seconds passed before I finally exhaled through my nose.

“Calm down, Elena.” My voice sounded unnervingly even in the quiet space. “Calm. Down.”

Normally, I prided myself on my ability to remain completely detached and composed under pressure.

As a former syndicate leader and assassin, I could calculate movements under heavy gunfire, make ruthless decisions without a second thought, and keep my emotions completely buried.

Yet ever since I walked into this house, my patience had been tested at every single turn.

First, the hostile parents. Then Bianca’s arrogant bragging. Now this childish sabotage.

I stared down at the shredded dress, feeling a sudden heat rising beneath my skin. If I, a woman who had spent a lifetime mastering emotional control, was finding it this difficult to keep my temper in check, I could only imagine what the real Ileana had endured under this roof.

My expression hardened into steel.

No.

I wasn’t going to let anger cloud my judgment. I had a dinner to attend, a room full of enemies to evaluate, and a powerful D’Angelo I needed to manipulate.

The dress was merely a tactical problem. And tactical problems could always be solved.

I crossed the room, swung open the wooden wardrobe doors, and carefully inspected the small collection of clothes inside.

Most of the hand-me-downs were completely unsuitable for a high-society dinner, and the last thing I wanted was to show up looking like a peasant.

My eyes swept across the meager shelves, skipping past the faded fabrics, until they landed on a specific combination of pieces tucked away in the back.

A small, dangerous smile touched my lips.

“All right,” I murmured to the empty room, my emerald green eyes narrowing with sharp amusement. “Let’s see how much trouble you people really want.”

“Where the hell is Ileana?”

Vittorio’s booming voice carried clearly up the grand foyer staircase. I was halfway down the upper hallway when his harsh tone reached my ears.

“Didn’t you tell her what time we were leaving?” he demanded.

“Of course I did,” Lucia replied from below, her voice dripping with irritation. “I sent the maid earlier to give her the dress and tell her when to be ready. I even sent Bianca upstairs a little while ago to check on her.”

Ah.

There it was.

I paused near the top landing, a quiet realization settling in.

Bianca.

I hadn’t needed confirmation to know who was responsible, but it was nice to have it anyway. Who else had the time, the petty motivation, and the childish determination to shred a dress simply to keep me from attending a dinner?

I shook my head silently. That girl desperately needed a hobby.

“She’s probably taking her sweet time on purpose,” Bianca’s voice chimed in from downstairs, rich with artificial innocence. “You know how unstable she is.”

I resumed my walk down the stairs, making sure my steps were slow and deliberate.

The light clicking of my heels echoed against the marble staircase as I came into view.

The three of them stood near the heavy front entrance, fully dressed for the evening. Vittorio looked formal and impatient, checking his wristwatch with a deep scowl. Lucia looked sharp and irritated, while Bianca wore the smug, victorious expression of a spoiled child convinced she had successfully ruined someone else's night.

None of them noticed my approach immediately.

Then Lucia glanced up toward the landing.

Her eyes swept over my figure, and she froze mid-breath.

Vittorio turned to see what had caused his wife to stop talking. Bianca followed his gaze a second later, her confident smirk ready to mock whatever disaster had unfolded.

For one glorious, heavy second, all three of them stared at me in total, speechless shock.

Then Lucia’s face twisted into an expression of pure horror.

“What the hell are you wearing?!”