CLAIMED AGAIN BY THE RUTHLESS DON

Chapter Five: A Name in the Wrong Mouth

The statement was already spreading by the time they reached the study.

Marco had it pulled up on a laptop screen, hands shaking slightly as he turned it toward Dominic, and Elena watched the color drain from Dominic’s face as he read.

“Read it out loud,” Elena said, her stomach twisting into knots. “Please. I need to hear it.”

Dominic’s jaw worked once before he spoke.

“Giovanni Castellano formally announces that Elena Vitale, formerly of the Salvatore household, has returned to New York under circumstances the Castellano family finds, quote, deeply relevant to ongoing territorial discussions.”

He set the laptop down like it had burned him. “He’s using you as a bargaining chip before we’ve even sat down at a table.”

“Relevant how?” Elena demanded. “I haven’t done anything. I’ve been in this house for two days.”

“It doesn’t matter what you’ve done,” Dominic said grimly. “It matters what he can make people believe you’ve done. Giovanni’s playing a game where perception is currency, and right now he’s spending your name like it’s worth a fortune.”

“So what does he actually want?” she asked, arms crossed, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

“Leverage,” Marco said quietly. “A seat at the table nobody would have given him otherwise. Tony’s debt got him a foot in the door. Your name gets him headlines.”

Elena felt sick. “This is my fault.”

“It is not your fault,” Dominic said sharply, rounding on her with an intensity that made her flinch. “Do you understand me? None of this, not one piece of it, is something you brought on yourself.”

“I walked back into your life and now my brother’s been beaten and my name’s being used as a weapon in a war I don’t even understand the rules of!” she yelled, seven years of guilt cracking open all at once. “How is that not my fault, Dominic?”

“Because Giovanni Castellano would have found a reason regardless!” His voice rose to match hers, something raw and furious underneath it that had nothing to do with anger at her. “Men like him don’t need real cracks to exploit.

They invent them. You think if you’d never come back, he’d have simply left Tony’s debt alone out of the goodness of his heart? He was circling long before you walked through my door.”

Silence rang out after that, sharp and ringing.

“I need air,” Elena muttered, and before either man could stop her, she’d pushed past them and out into the hallway, her chest heaving.

She didn’t get far. The garden door was closest, and she shoved through it into the cool morning air, gulping it down like she’d been drowning.

She hadn’t heard footsteps follow her until Marco’s voice broke the quiet.

“He didn’t mean to snap at you,” Marco said, hovering a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, looking supremely uncomfortable with the entire concept of comforting someone. “He’s not… good, at this. Feelings. Never has been. His father made sure of that.”

“I know,” Elena said, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, annoyed at herself for crying at all. “I used to be the only one who could get past that.”

“You still are,” Marco said, then looked immediately like he regretted the honesty.

She turned to face him fully. “Marco, I need to ask you something, and I need you to actually answer me this time instead of running away.”

He went very still. “Elena…”

“Seven years ago, something happened,” she pressed on, refusing to let him escape the conversation again.

“Something turned Dominic from a man who loved me into a man who wouldn’t answer my calls, wouldn’t see me, wouldn’t even let me explain myself before I finally gave up and left the city for good. I need to know what that something was.”

“You should ask him,” Marco said, but his voice had gone hollow, unconvincing even to his own ears, apparently.

“I’m asking you.” She stepped closer. “Because every time his name comes up, you look like you’re about to be sick. That’s not the reaction of a man with nothing to hide, Marco.”

He was quiet for a long moment, jaw working, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder like he could will himself out of the conversation through sheer force of avoidance.

“There were photographs,” he said finally, so quietly she almost missed it. “Seven years ago. Photographs that showed you meeting with a Castellano associate. Money changing hands. It looked… it looked exactly like what everyone assumed it was.”

Elena’s blood went cold. “What photographs? I never met with anyone from the Castellanos. I would never…”

“I know,” Marco said, and something in his voice cracked wide open, guilt bleeding through every syllable. “I know that now. But I didn’t know it then, and I…”

“Marco.” Dominic’s voice cut through the garden like a blade, and both of them turned to find him standing in the doorway, face carved from granite, eyes locked on his most trusted aide with an expression Elena had never seen him wear before.

“What exactly do you know now.”

The color drained entirely from Marco’s face. “Dominic, I can explain…”

“Explain what?” Dominic’s voice was deadly quiet, more frightening than any shout could have been.

“Explain photographs? Explain why you’re standing in my garden discussing evidence from seven years ago that I was never once shown in full? Start talking, Marco. Now.”

“It wasn’t my call,” Marco said, and for the first time since Elena had met him, his composure shattered completely, his voice breaking on every other word.

“Your father ordered it. He said Elena was a liability to the succession, that she’d never accept the life you were building, that she’d get you killed or worse before you ever became Don. He had the photographs made. He told me to show them to you. He told me it was for your own good.”

The garden went utterly silent.

“Made,” Elena repeated numbly. “You mean fabricated. Fake.”

“Yes,” Marco whispered.

Dominic hadn’t moved. He stood frozen in the doorway, and Elena watched something behind his eyes shatter into a thousand pieces, seven years of certainty crumbling in the space of a single sentence.

“You told me she betrayed me,” Dominic said, and his voice had gone hollow, stripped of everything but disbelief. “I watched those photographs a hundred times, Marco. I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping. I became this…” He gestured at himself, at the cold precision he wore like armor. “…because I believed the woman I loved sold me out to save herself. And you’re telling me now, seven years later, standing in my mother’s garden, that it was never real?”

“Your father made me swear I’d never tell you,” Marco said, tears finally spilling over, the first crack in seven years of granite composure. “He said it was the only way to protect the family, to protect you from a weakness he thought would destroy everything we’d built. I believed him. God help me, Dominic, I believed him, and by the time I understood what I’d actually done, you’d already gone cold, and Elena had already left, and I told myself the damage was done, that telling the truth would only make it worse.”

Elena felt the ground tilt beneath her, seven years of grief and confusion and self blame rearranging itself into a shape she’d never once considered. She hadn’t lost him to indifference. She’d lost him to a lie built by his own father and delivered by a man who now stood sobbing in a garden, seven years too late.

“I left,” she said slowly, “because I thought you stopped loving me. And you stopped loving me because you thought I betrayed you. Neither of those things ever actually happened.”

Dominic turned to her, and the look on his face, raw and shattered and finally, finally honest, undid something in her chest that had been clenched tight for seven long years

.

“Elena,” he said, voice breaking on her name in a way she’d never heard before. “I need you to know that I…”

The sound of shattering glass exploded from somewhere inside the house, followed immediately by a gunshot, sharp and deafening, and Marco was moving before the echo even finished, shouting something about the front hall as Dominic shoved Elena bodily behind him, his entire frame going rigid with an instinct honed by years of exactly this kind of moment.

“Stay down,” Dominic ordered, already pulling a weapon from beneath his jacket that Elena hadn’t even known he was carrying. “Whatever happens, Elena, stay down and do not move from this spot.”

And through the shattered window of the study, Elena caught one horrifying glimpse of the front hall beyond, of men she didn’t recognize pouring through a door that should have been guarded, and understood, with a cold and paralyzing certainty, that Giovanni Castellano’s statement had been nothing more than a distraction for exactly this.