Chapter 7

Elena Vitiello POV:

The crystal chandelier above the long oak dining table cast a blinding, harsh light over the room. The table was covered in expensive French cuisine, roasted meats, and heavy silver platters.

I sat at the very end of the long table. I wore a plain, thick black turtleneck sweater. I refused to wear any of the designer dresses Dante had bought for me. I looked entirely out of place in the sea of diamonds and silk around the room.

Sofia sat at the other end, right next to Dante in the seat of honor. She laughed loudly, leaning over to chat with the girlfriends and wives of Dante's top lieutenants.

"Oh, Sofia, that white cashmere looks absolutely stunning on your skin tone," one of the Capo's wives practically shouted, making sure her voice carried down the table to me.

Sofia touched the collar of my stolen clothes, her eyes flashing with victory. "Thank you. Dante has such wonderful taste."

I picked up my heavy silver steak knife. I pressed the blade down into the rare meat on my plate and dragged it hard across the porcelain.

Screeeech.

The horrific sound cut through the chatter. Dante’s head snapped toward me. His eyes narrowed into dark, warning slits, silently ordering me to stop embarrassing him.

I didn't stop. I chopped the meat into unidentifiable pieces, pushed the plate to the center of the table, and set the knife down. I hadn't taken a single bite.

Dinner slowly ended. The men moved to smoke. Dante stood up and walked over to the massive mahogany wet bar in the corner. He started mixing drinks himself. When he was a teenager, before he took over the empire, he worked as a bartender. It was the only time he ever served anyone else.

He took a heavy ice pick and expertly chipped a perfect sphere of clear ice. He dropped it into a heavy crystal glass and poured a generous measure of vintage Bourbon whiskey.

Sofia clapped her hands together, her eyes dripping with fake adoration. "You're so good at that, Dante."

He handed the first glass to Sofia. As she took it, her manicured fingers deliberately brushed over his knuckles. He didn't pull away.

Then, Dante picked up a second glass of pure, neat Bourbon. He walked the length of the dining room, stopping right next to my chair. He set the glass down hard next to my water goblet.

The sharp, burning smell of heavy alcohol and smoked oak hit my face. My stomach violently cramped. The smell of cheap whiskey was the smell of my father. It was the smell of the nights I spent hiding in the closet while he broke the furniture. Dante knew this. I had told him on our wedding night.

I looked slowly up at Dante. My eyes were as cold as the ice at the bottom of the glass.

He looked down at me, his jaw set. "Drink it," he ordered, his voice sounding like a king giving an order to a peasant. "It will warm you up."

From across the room, Sofia covered her mouth and let out a sharp giggle. "Oh, Dante, don't force her. Elena only drinks sweet, sugary fruit juice. She can't handle real drinks."

Every conversation in the room stopped. Every pair of eyes turned to me. The women smirked. The men watched with quiet amusement. I was the joke.

I put my hands on the armrests of my heavy chair. I pushed it back. The wood scraped loudly against the floor. I stood up, my spine perfectly straight.

I reached out my hand. My fingers wrapped around the thick crystal glass.

Dante’s chest expanded. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a satisfied smirk. He thought he had won. He thought I was submitting.

I didn't break eye contact with him. I flipped my wrist.

I poured the entire glass of expensive, amber liquid straight into the dirt of the massive, rare Bird of Paradise potted plant next to the table. Every single drop.

The heavy ice cube fell out last, hitting the wet soil with a dull, heavy thud.

The entire dining room went dead silent. Nobody breathed.

Sofia let out a loud, dramatic gasp, pressing both hands to her cheeks in fake horror.

Dante’s smirk froze. The vein on the side of his forehead pulsed violently. His eyes turned black with instant, explosive rage.

He lunged forward. His massive hand clamped down on my wrist. His iron fingers dug into my fragile bones, squeezing so hard I felt the joints grinding together.

I didn't wince. I stared right back into his furious eyes, planted my feet, and violently yanked my arm back. My wrist tore free from his grip, leaving red finger marks on my skin.

I grabbed my heavy winter coat off the back of the chair. I didn't look at Sofia. I didn't look at the guards.

I turn my back on the room and walked straight toward the heavy glass sliding doors leading to the backyard.

"Elena!" Dante roared behind me. His voice shook the crystal chandelier above the table.

I pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped out into the screaming blizzard.

"If you walk out that door today, don't you ever think about coming back!"

Chapter 8

Elena Vitiello POV:

The wind outside was howling. The temperature was ten degrees below zero. The gale force winds whipped sharp shards of ice directly into my face, cutting my skin like tiny razors.

Within seconds, the heavy snow soaked through the shoulders of my coat. I forced my legs to move, stepping high over the deep snowdrifts, walking away from the cabin lights toward the dark edge of the pine forest. Fear of freezing to death clawed at my chest, but the desperation to escape pushed me forward.

I reached the tree line. I pressed my back against the thick, rough trunk of a massive pine tree to block the wind. My hands were already shaking violently from the cold. I dug into my boot and pulled out the backup phone.

The tiny screen glowed weakly in the absolute darkness.

A message from Isabella sat on the screen: Chopper holding at grid coordinate. Ready for immediate dust-off.

My fingers were stiff and turning red. I clumsily tapped the keys: 10 minutes.

Crunch. Crunch.

The heavy, unmistakable sound of boots breaking through the frozen snow crust came from behind me.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I shoved the phone deep down into the side of my boot. I spun around, pressing my spine flat against the tree bark.

A massive shadow broke through the curtain of falling snow. Dante. He wasn't wearing a coat. He was only wearing his thin black dress shirt, the fabric whipping wildly in the wind. The panic of losing control over me had completely blinded him to the freezing temperature.

He closed the distance in two massive strides. His large hands shot out, grabbing both of my shoulders. His grip was brutal, his fingers digging into my muscles with enough force to bruise the bone.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" he roared, his voice tearing through the wind. His blue eyes were bloodshot, wild with rage.

I didn't push him away. I let him shake me. I looked up at his handsome, furious face. I looked at him the way you look at a corpse.

"Let go of me," I said. My voice was quiet, broken by the wind, but every word was a poison dart.

"You are out of your mind," he snarled, pulling me closer.

"Your shirt," I said, my voice dead flat. "It smells like her cheap vanilla perfume. And it smells like blood."

Dante’s entire body jerked. His grip on my shoulders loosened for a fraction of a second. A flash of guilt, of being caught, crossed his eyes before he buried it under his anger.

"I run a syndicate, Elena," he spat, trying to justify the blood. "It was business. I had to handle a meeting."

The corner of my mouth twitched up into a bitter, humorless smile. "Was the meeting in a bed?"

His face twisted with pure fury. He slammed me hard against the rough bark of the pine tree. The impact knocked the breath out of my lungs. He lowered his head, his face coming down fast, trying to force his mouth over mine to shut me up. It was the only way he knew how to solve a problem—physical dominance.

I fought back violently. I twisted my neck, turning my face away. His cold, hard lips scraped painfully against my frozen cheek.

I brought my knee up hard and fast, driving it directly into his stomach.

Dante let out a sharp grunt of pain. He stumbled back a step, his hands dropping from my shoulders.

I pushed myself away from the tree. I raised my shaking arm and pointed a stiff finger back through the snow, toward the glowing windows of the cabin. "Go back to your dog, Dante."

He wiped the melting snow from his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes turned into black, bottomless pits. "You are my wife. You will never leave me."

He stepped forward again, dipping his shoulder, preparing to throw me over his back and carry me inside by force.

"Ahhhhhh!"

A high-pitched, blood-curdling scream sliced through the howling wind.

It came from the second floor of the cabin. It was Sofia.

Dante’s forward momentum stopped instantly. His head snapped toward the cabin. His eyes locked onto the brightly lit window on the second floor.

I stood two feet away, watching his face. I saw the raw, unfiltered panic explode in his eyes. I saw the genuine, desperate terror that she might be hurt.

That look was the final nail. The coffin of my marriage slammed shut.

Dante turned his head to look at me. His chest he heave. For one second, he looked torn. But his body had already made the choice.

He opened his hand, completely releasing my wrist.

He turned his back on me. He dug his boots into the snow and sprinted back toward the cabin like a wild animal, leaving me alone in the dark.

"You better pray she's not dead, Dante."