I woke up in a room that wasn't mine.

The walls were painted a pale, suffocating beige that seemed to close in on me. My vanity, usually cluttered with crystal perfume bottles and silver-handled brushes, was stripped bare. The wedding photo that always sat on the nightstand—Dante lifting my veil with a look of reverence—was gone.

In its place was a framed picture of Dante and Sofia. They were sitting on a garden bench, smiling. It looked old. It looked terrifyingly real.

My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache. My mind felt like shattered glass that had been glued back together in the wrong order, reflecting a distorted reality I couldn't recognize.

The door clicked opened.

Dante walked in. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, impeccable, dangerous. He smelled of dark espresso and raw, unchecked power.

"You're awake," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth.

I sat up, clutching the sheets to my chest. I didn't know how to look at him. My brain told me he was my husband, but my gut screamed that he was my torturer.

"Where are my things?" I asked. My voice was raspy, scraped raw from silence.

"Sofia is fragile," Dante said, adjusting his cufflinks with precise, deliberate movements. "Seeing your belongings... it triggers her PTSD. She remembers you packing her bags the night she was taken. She needs to feel at home here. This was her home first, Elena."

"I didn't pack her bags," I whispered, the memory hazy but the conviction strong. "I was six years old."

Dante sighed. It was a sound of clinical impatience. "The therapy takes time. Your denial is deep-rooted."

He walked to the bed and towered over me. He didn't touch me. He looked at me like a problem to be solved, a calculation that hadn't balanced out.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "You have chores."

"Chores?"

"You need to learn humility. You need to reconnect with the reality of your actions. You will tend to the kennels today."

The air left my lungs.

Dante knew. He knew better than anyone. When I was eight, a rival family's guard dog had torn my calf open. I still had the jagged, silvery scars. I couldn't be near big dogs without my throat closing up.

"Dante, no," I pleaded, my hands shaking violently. "Please. Anything else. I'll scrub the floors. I'll clean the kitchens until my hands bleed. Don't make me go near them."

"Fear is a lack of discipline," he said coldly. "The Cane Corsos are family. You will learn to respect them, just as you will learn to respect your sister."

He grabbed my wrist with a grip like iron and pulled me out of bed.

Ten minutes later, I was standing in the gravel run of the estate's kennels. The smell of musk and raw meat hung heavy in the damp air.

Three massive Cane Corsos paced the fence. They were muscle and teeth, bred to kill on command.

Sofia was there. She was wearing a white sundress, looking like an angel descended into hell. She stood safely behind the gate.

"They're hungry, Elena," she chirped, her voice sickeningly sweet. She held out a bucket of raw meat. "Dante says you have to feed them by hand."

Dante stood on the porch, watching. His arms were crossed. He was the judge, and this was my sentence.

I took the bucket. My hands were trembling so hard the handle rattled against the plastic.

I stepped into the enclosure.

The alpha male, Brutus, growled. It was a low, rumbling sound that vibrated deep in my chest.

"Good boy," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Good boy."

"He smells your fear," Sofia called out. "Stop being such a coward. It's embarrassing."

She picked up a stone from the path.

Before I could react, she hurled it. It hit Brutus square on the flank with a sickening thud.

The dog snapped.

He didn't look at Sofia. He looked at the trembling prey in front of him.

He lunged.

I screamed, throwing my arms up to protect my face. Jaws clamped onto my forearm. Teeth sank into flesh. The pain was white-hot and immediate, searing through my nerves.

"Help!" I shrieked. "Dante!"

I fell backward into the dirt. The dog was shaking me, tearing at the muscle.

A gunshot rang out.

The dog released me and scrambled back, whining. Dante hadn't shot the dog; he had fired into the air.

He vaulted the fence, but he didn't run to me. He ran to check the dog.

"Brutus, down!" he commanded.

I lay in the dirt, clutching my bleeding arm. Blood soaked my shirt, turning the fabric dark and heavy.

Sofia was screaming. "She provoked him! I saw it! She tried to hit him with the bucket!"

Dante turned to me. His eyes were abysses.

"Get up," he hissed.

"He bit me," I sobbed, shock making my words slur. "She threw a stone..."

"Liar," Dante spat. "Sofia loves these animals. You hate them. You hate everything that I love."

He hauled me up by my uninjured arm. He dragged me out of the enclosure like a sack of refuse.

"Go to the infirmary," he said. "Get it stitched. And then get out of my sight."

The nightmare didn't end there.

Later that evening, Brutus was found dead. Foaming at the mouth. Rat poison.

Dante stormed into my room. He threw a packet of poison onto my bed. It had been found in my drawer.

"I didn't do it," I said, numb. My arm was bandaged, throbbing in time with my heart.

"You killed a loyal soldier because you are weak," Dante said. His voice was terrifyingly quiet. "You disrespected the Family."

He grabbed me by the hair and dragged me downstairs. He threw open the heavy oak doors to the courtyard.

It was November. A freezing rain was falling, turning the cobblestones into slick grey ice.

"Kneel," he ordered.

"Dante, please. It's freezing."

"Kneel!" he roared.

I fell to my knees on the stones. The cold soaked through my thin pants instantly, biting into my skin like needles.

"You stay here until you understand loyalty," he said.

He slammed the doors shut. I heard the heavy lock click.

I knelt there for hours. The rain turned to sleet. My body started to shake violently, then it stopped shaking, which was worse.

I looked up at the window of the warm, golden living room.

I saw Dante. He was sitting by the fire. Sofia was on the floor, her head resting on his knee. He was stroking her hair, staring into the flames.

He looked like a king on his throne.

And I was just a peasant dying at his gates.

Three days passed in the sterile white of the hospital room, a blur of hypothermia and pneumonia.

Dante visited exactly once.

He stood at the foot of the bed, checked his watch, and told me that the Commission was gathering on the yacht this weekend. He said my absence would look suspicious.

He didn't ask how I felt. He didn't touch me.

So, on Saturday, I encased myself in a long-sleeved gown to hide the bandages and the fading bruises.

The yacht, *The Vengeance*, was a floating palace. Champagne flowed in endless, golden streams. Men in tuxedos discussed territory and shipments while their wives compared diamonds sharp enough to cut glass.

I stood by the railing, holding a tray of crystal flutes like a servant.

"Elena," a voice purred.

I turned. Sofia was wearing a dress that cost more than the house I grew up in. It was red. Blood red.

"You look pale," she said, smiling over the rim of her glass. "Dante wants you to serve the Don of the Chicago Outfit. He's thirsty."

"I am his wife," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor of fear in my chest. "I am not a waitress."

"You are whatever Dante says you are," she whispered, leaning in until I could smell her expensive perfume. "And right now, you're an embarrassment."

She snatched a glass from my tray and shoved it into my hand. "Drink. To my health. To the sister you sold."

"I can't," I said stiffly. "I'm allergic to the sulfites in this vintage. You know that."

"Drink it, or I start screaming that you pinched me."

I looked across the deck. Dante was deep in conversation with Julian, a rival boss from the West Coast. Julian was looking at me, his gaze intense and assessing. Dante wasn't looking at me at all.

I drank the champagne.

My throat began to itch immediately. Hives broke out on my neck, hidden by the high collar, but the heat was undeniable. My chest tightened.

Sofia laughed. She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the stern, away from the crowd.

"Look at you," she sneered. "Pathetic. Do you know why he keeps you? Because of the contract. He can't divorce you without losing the port territories. But accidents... accidents happen."

The wind whipped her hair across her face.

"I want to be the Queen," she said simply. "And there is only one throne."

She looked over her shoulder. The deck was empty.

Without warning, she threw herself backward against the railing. She screamed, a blood-curdling sound. "Help! She's pushing me!"

Dante materialized instantly. He moved with the speed of a predator.

He saw Sofia clinging to the rail. He saw me standing there, gasping for air, my face flushed from the allergic reaction.

"Elena!" he roared.

He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate.

He shoved me.

It was a hard, brutal shove meant to tear me away from her.

I hit the railing. My balance was gone. I tipped over the edge.

The water hit me with the density of concrete.

Cold. Dark. Salty.

I sank. The heavy gown pulled me down like an anchor. My lungs burned. I kicked, fighting the surface, fighting the ocean.

I broke the surface for a fraction of a second. I saw the lights of the yacht. I saw Dante leaning over the rail.

He was reaching down.

But he wasn't reaching for me.

He was pulling Sofia up, wrapping her in his jacket, checking her face for scratches.

I screamed his name, but the water filled my mouth.

He didn't look down. He turned his back and walked away with her, leaving me to the black waves.

I didn’t die, though God knows I wanted to.

As the current dragged me under, heavy and cold as a winding sheet, I thought about letting go. It would be peaceful. No more pain. No more Dante.

But rage, it turns out, is a powerful buoyancy aid.

I found a piece of driftwood bobbing in the gray swell. I kicked until my muscles screamed, until the salt burned my throat raw. I washed up on a rocky strip of beach miles down the coast, vomiting seawater and bile into the sand.

I walked for hours, a ghost haunting the coastline, until I found a road. A trucker gave me a ride back to the city. Delirium must have taken the wheel then, because I didn't ask for a hospital. My traitorous tongue gave the only address that mattered.

I collapsed at the service entrance of the estate.

Naturally, the guards found me before death could.

When I woke up, I wasn't in a hospital. I was back in the interrogation room.

Dante was there. He looked wrecked. His tie was undone, his shirt rumpled as if he hadn't slept.

When he saw my eyes open, he didn't cry with relief. He slammed his fist onto the metal table, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

"You tried to kill her again," he growled.

I stared at the ceiling. A laugh bubbled up in my throat. It was a broken, jagged sound, like glass grinding together.

"I almost drowned, Dante."

"Because you attacked her! She told me everything. You tried to throw her overboard, and you slipped." He paced the room like a caged tiger, vibrating with lethal energy. "I cannot have a murderer for a wife. I cannot have a traitor."

He turned to the mirror. I knew Dr. Ricci was behind it, watching like a vulture.

"Prepare the machine," Dante ordered. "Increase the dosage. We need to reset her completely."

"Dante, no," Dr. Ricci's voice came over the intercom, crackling with static and fear. "She has suffered severe hypoxia. Her brain is swelling. If we use the serum now, it could lobotomize her. Or kill her."

Dante froze. He looked at me. For a second, I saw a flicker of the man who used to hold me when I had nightmares—a ghost of the husband I once loved.

"She is dangerous," Dante said, his voice shaking. "I have to fix her."

"You can't fix what you've already destroyed," I whispered.

He ignored me, steeling himself against the truth. "Do a lower dose. Just enough to sedate her aggression."

They strapped me down again. The leather cuffs felt familiar now. Cold. Final.

This time, my body couldn't fight. The drug entered my system, mixing with the saltwater and the trauma.

The world didn't just fade; it shattered.

I convulsed. My back arched so hard I thought my spine would snap. Foam gathered at my lips as electricity seemed to arc through my veins.

"Stop it! You're killing her!" The doctor shouted.

Then, the darkness swallowed me whole.

*

When I woke up, the room was white. Soft. Sterile.

A man was sitting in the chair. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Predatory eyes.

I blinked. My mind was a blank slate. A white fog where a history should have been.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice a rusty scrape.

The man flinched. "Elena. It's me. Dante."

I frowned. The name meant nothing. No, that wasn't true. It meant... pain. A sharp, phantom ache in my chest.

"Are you the client?" I asked, shrinking back against the headboard, instinctively covering myself. "I'll be good. Just don't hit me."

Dante’s face went white. He looked like he had been shot in the chest.

"I'm your husband," he whispered.

"Husband?" I tested the word. It tasted like ash. "I don't have a husband. I work at the... the house. The Madame said I have to work off my debt."

The false memories from the first session had taken root, filling the void left by the trauma. They were my reality now. I was the whore Sofia claimed I was.

Dante stood up, knocking the chair over with a deafening clatter. He stormed out of the room.

I heard him shouting in the hallway. Then I heard a woman's voice. High, shrill.

The door opened. Sofia walked in.

She looked at me, lying broken in the bed. She smiled—a cold, victorious curving of lips.

"You really don't remember?" she asked.

"Remember what?"

She walked over and slapped me. Hard.

My head snapped to the side. I didn't fight back. I was trained not to fight back. I just whimpered, curling inward.

Dante rushed back in. He saw Sofia standing over me. He saw the red mark blooming on my cheek.

"Sofia!" he warned.

"She looked at me with that look," Sofia sobbed, burying her face in her hands immediately. "The look she gave me when she sold me."

Dante sighed, the fight draining out of him. He walked past me. He wrapped his arms around Sofia.

"It's okay," he soothed her. "She can't hurt you anymore. She doesn't even know who she is."

He looked at me over Sofia's shoulder. His eyes were full of pity. And disgust.

I pulled the sheets up to my chin, terrified of the strange man and the crying woman. I just wanted to go home, but looking at their faces, I realized with a sinking heart: I didn't know where home was anymore.