The heavy metal door to my holding cell crashed against the wall.

It wasn't Dante.

It was Mia. My maid. My bodyguard. The only soul in this godforsaken, frozen city who gave a damn whether I drew breath or suffocated.

She had a serrated combat knife gripped in one hand and a Glock in the other. Her face was streaked with soot, her eyes wide with urgency.

"Principessa," she breathed, rushing to me. With a swift motion, she sliced the ropes binding my wrists. "We have to go. The engine is running out back."

"Dante is in the next room," I whispered. My voice was a rusted scrape against my raw throat.

Mia froze.

She looked at the wall, then back at me. She saw the devastation in my eyes. She didn't ask. She knew.

"Then we leave him here," she said grimly. "He stays."

We didn't get the chance.

We were halfway down the hallway when Dante stepped out of the adjacent room.

He looked infuriatingly impeccable. His black suit was unwrinkled, his dark hair perfectly styled. The only sign of his recent activities was the slight flush on his neck and the wild, frantic energy in his eyes.

He wasn't carrying Sofia. She was walking behind him, looking pale and fragile, clutching his jacket like a lifeline.

Dante's eyes landed on me.

They were cold. Glacial.

He didn't look at the blood on my arm. He didn't look at the bruises blooming on my wrists.

"You," he said. It wasn't a greeting. It was a verdict.

"Me," I replied. I straightened my spine, ignoring the scream of my battered muscles. I was a Vitiello. I would not cower.

He crossed the distance between us in two long strides. He grabbed my upper arm, his grip bruising.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" he hissed.

I stared at him. "Find out what?"

"That you arranged for her to be taken," he snarled, jerking his head toward Sofia. "That you paid those men to drag her out of the estate so you could have me to yourself."

My mouth fell open.

Behind him, Sofia buried her face in her hands, sobbing quietly. "I told you, Dante. She hates me. She told me I was a leech."

"I did no such thing," I said, my voice trembling with rage. "I was kidnapped too, Dante! I was rotting in the room next door while you were playing Romeo!"

"Liar," he spat. "My men found you untied. Mia was walking you out."

He looked at Mia. His hand went to his waistband, where his gun sat.

"Don't." I stepped in front of Mia. "She saved me. Which is more than you did."

Dante released me with a shove. I stumbled back.

"Get in the car," he ordered. "We are going home. And then we are going to settle this."

The drive back to the estate was suffocating, silent as a tomb.

I watched the Chicago skyline blur past the tinted windows, gray and indifferent.

When we arrived at the mansion, Dante carried Sofia inside. He ordered the doctor to attend to her immediately.

He left me standing in the cavernous foyer, a ghost in my own home, with dried blood crusting on my sleeve.

I walked up the grand staircase, my legs feeling like lead. I went to my room. I needed to wash the filth of this day off my skin.

But when I opened the door to my suite, I stopped.

Something was wrong.

The room was too empty.

My eyes darted to the corner by the window.

The stand was empty.

My cello.

My mother's 1710 Matteo Goffriller cello. The instrument that was worth more than this entire house. The instrument that held the last remnants of my soul.

It was gone.

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through my veins.

I ran to the closet. Empty.

I ran to the hallway.

"Mia!" I screamed.

I stormed into the drawing room where Dante's aunt, the formidable Matriarch of the Moretti family, was sipping tea from delicate porcelain.

"Where is it?" I demanded.

She looked up, her expression one of bored indifference.

"Lower your voice, Gianna. You are being hysterical."

"My cello," I said, my hands shaking at my sides. "It's missing from my room. Who took it?"

"Perhaps the maids moved it for cleaning," she said dismissively, returning her attention to her cup.

"No one touches that instrument but me," I snapped. "Where is Dante?"

"He is with Sofia," she said. "She is very shaken."

Of course he was.

I turned on my heel and marched down the hall to the East Wing. Sofia's domain.

The guards at the door stepped forward to stop me.

"Move," I ordered, channeling every ounce of authority my father, the Don of New York, had instilled in me. "Or I will have my brother burn this hallway down with you in it."

They exchanged a nervous glance, hesitating just enough.

I pushed past them and threw open the double doors.

Sofia was in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows. She looked like a tragic heroine from a bad opera, pale and fragile.

But Dante wasn't sitting in the chair by the bed.

He was coming out of the ensuite bathroom, buttoning his cuffs. His hair was wet, darker than usual against his skin.

He had showered here. In her room.

The implication hit me like a physical blow.

"What are you doing here?" Dante asked, his voice weary and edged with irritation.

"My cello is gone," I said, my voice trembling. "And I think she has it."

I pointed a shaking finger at Sofia.

Sofia's eyes went wide, feigning innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about, Gianna. Why would I want your cello? I don't even play."

"You take everything else that belongs to me," I said, venom coating my words. "Why stop there?"

"Enough," Dante snapped. "You are being paranoid."

"Am I?"

I walked over to the large walk-in closet in the corner of the room.

"Gianna, stop," Dante warned, stepping forward.

I threw the closet doors open.

Rows of designer dresses. Shoes. Bags. The scent of expensive perfume wafted out.

And there, shoved in the back behind a stack of hat boxes, was the case.

My case.

I gasped and pulled it out. It was heavy. I unlatched it with trembling fingers.

When I lifted the lid, a scream tore from my throat.

The rich, dark wood of the cello was gouged. Deep, ugly scratches marred the varnish. The bridge was snapped clean in two.

It looked like someone had taken a key and carved hate into the wood.

"You bitch," I whispered.

I turned around. Sofia was watching me, a tiny, triumphant smirk playing on her lips that only I could see.

I didn't think. I didn't calculate.

I crossed the room and slapped her.

The sound was like a gunshot in the silence.

Sofia's head snapped to the side. She let out a piercing shriek.

Dante moved faster than I could track.

He grabbed my wrist, twisting it painfully behind my back. He shoved me away from the bed with brutal force.

"Don't you ever touch her," he roared. His eyes were black pits of fury.

"She destroyed it!" I screamed, pointing at the cello. "Look at it, Dante! That was my mother's!"

Dante glanced at the ruined instrument. He looked back at Sofia, who was holding her cheek, tears streaming down her face.

"It's just wood, Gianna," he said coldly. "It's trash. You can buy another one."

I stared at him.

Just wood.

"It is not just wood," I said, my voice breaking. "It is my voice. And she broke it."

"She didn't do it," Dante said, his denial absolute. "She has been in bed all day."

"She is lying!"

"I will order an internal investigation," Dante said, his tone final. "Now get out. Before I forget that you are a Vitiello and treat you like the soldier you are acting like."

He turned his back on me. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently touched Sofia's red cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her.

He was apologizing to the monster.

I grabbed the handle of my broken cello case and dragged it out of the room.

The wheels clicked on the marble floor.

Click. Click. Click.

Like the countdown of a bomb.

The so-called investigation was a farce, a theater of cruelty designed to appease, not to uncover the truth.

Two days later, Dante's Capo hauled a sobbing maid into the courtyard.

They claimed she had stolen the cello to pawn it, only to damage the instrument in a panic when confronted.

It was a lie. I knew it, and they knew it.

Dante didn't blink as he ordered her hands crushed with a hammer.

I watched from the balcony, nausea roiling in my stomach, acid climbing my throat.

I knew the maid was innocent.

I knew with absolute certainty that Sofia had either paid her off or threatened her family into silence.

But Dante didn't care about the truth. He cared about order. He cared about the sanctity of Sofia's reputation.

"Are you satisfied?" Dante asked, his voice materializing directly behind me.

I didn't turn around. I couldn't bear to look at him.

"You punished the wrong person," I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.

"The matter is settled," he stated cold and final. "Tonight is the Gala aboard the Lady Anastasia. You will wear the red dress I selected. And you will apologize to Sofia for striking her."

I turned slowly, meeting his gaze.

"I will not."

"You will," Dante countered.

He stepped close, looming over me, sucking the air out of the space between us.

"Because if you don't, I will deploy Mia to the front lines of the territory dispute in the South Side."

He knew exactly where to strike. He knew my sister was my only weakness.

"You are a monster," I whispered.

"I am a husband who expects obedience."

The Gala was a display of grotesque excess.

Champagne flowed like water, diamonds sparked under the chandeliers, and men discussed murder with polite smiles plastered on their faces.

I wore the red dress.

It clung to my skin, heavy and suffocating. It felt like I was wearing blood.

I found Sofia near the railing on the upper deck, holding court amidst a circle of admirers.

Dante stood nearby, watching her like a hawk guarding its prey.

I approached them, my stomach twisting into a knot.

"Sofia," I said.

The circle parted.

Sofia looked at me, her eyes gleaming with triumph.

"Gianna," she smiled, a predator baring its teeth. "Dante said you had something to say."

"I apologize," I said, the words tasting like ash and bile. "For my behavior."

"It's okay," Sofia said sweetly.

She reached out to hug me, a performance for the audience.

As she leaned in, her lips brushed my ear.

"He will never love you," she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss. "You are just the bank account he uses to buy me pretty things."

She pulled back abruptly and stumbled.

It was theatrical, a poorly acted swoon.

She threw her weight backward, tipping over the low railing.

"Gianna!" she screamed.

But as she fell, her fingers locked onto my arm.

I lost my balance. The world tilted violently.

We both went over the side.

The water was freezing. It hit me like a concrete wall, knocking the breath from my lungs.

The dark waves swallowed me whole.

I kicked, fighting the heavy, waterlogged fabric of my gown.

The cold paralyzed my limbs, turning my blood to ice.

I broke the surface, gasping for air.

"Dante!" I screamed.

I saw him.

He had dived in from the deck above, a dark shape cutting through the night.

He was swimming.

He was strong, slicing through the water with terrifying speed.

He was coming toward us.

I reached out my hand, desperation clawing at my throat.

He looked at me.

For a split second, our eyes locked.

He saw me. He saw my terror.

Then he swam past me.

He swam to Sofia.

He grabbed her, pulling her head above water, holding her close against his chest to shield her from the waves.

He didn't look back.

I stopped kicking.

The cold seeped into my bones, but the realization was colder.

He chose.

In the moment between life and death, he chose.

I let the water pull me down.

I didn't want to fight anymore.

A rough hand grabbed the back of my dress.

A crew member. One of the boat's security staff hauled me onto a rescue skiff like a sack of wet laundry.

I lay on the bottom of the boat, shivering violently, vomiting salt water onto the floorboards.

I watched Dante climb onto the ladder of the yacht, holding Sofia in his arms like she was the most precious thing in the world.

He was checking her pulse. He was kissing her forehead.

He hadn't even asked if I was out of the water.

I sat up, wiping the brine from my lips.

"Give me a phone," I rasped to the security guard.

He hesitated, then handed me a satellite phone.

My fingers were numb, clumsy, but I dialed the number I knew by heart.

"Luca," I said when my brother answered.

"Gianna?" His voice was sharp, instantly alert. "Why are you calling on an insecure line?"

"I'm done," I said. My voice was flat. Dead.

"The alliance is over."

"What did he do?" Luca's voice dropped an octave, shifting into the lethal tone of the Capo dei Capi.

"He let me drown," I said, staring at the yacht.

"I want to come home, Luca. Take me back to the Hamptons."

"I'm sending the jet," Luca said, the promise of violence lingering in his silence. "Pack your bags."

"I have nothing to pack," I said, watching my husband fawn over his mistress.

"I have nothing left here."