I was already packing a go-bag when Dante came home two days later.

I wasn't taking much.

My sketchbook. Some cash I had squirreled away over the years. My passport.

The door to the bedroom swung open.

Dante stood there.

His dark eyes flicked to the open suitcase on the bed.

"Where are you going?"

His voice was calm, but there was a coiled tension in his shoulders.

"Donating old clothes," I lied smoothly.

I threw a heavy sweater on top of the hidden passport.

He didn't check.

He was distracted, his attention consumed by the scrolling screen of his phone.

"I need to stay at the safe house for a few days," he said, without looking up. "Security concerns."

"Is Sofia staying there too?" I asked.

He didn't answer. That was answer enough.

He reached into his pocket and tossed a black Centurion card onto the bed.

"Buy yourself something nice. Replace the dress."

He turned to leave.

"Dante," I called out.

He stopped, his hand hovering over the doorknob.

"Do you love her?"

He stiffened. "I love the Family, Elena. I do what I must."

Then he walked out.

I picked up the black card.

It felt cold and heavy in my hand. I cut it into jagged pieces with a pair of scissors.

I left the shards on his pillow.

I finished packing.

I had one stop to make before I disappeared.

I met my friend Sarah at a small bistro downtown. She was a civilian-sweet, naive Sarah who didn't know about the blood, the oaths, or the guns.

"You look terrible," she said, grabbing my hand across the table. "Leave him, El. Just leave him."

"I am," I said, squeezing her fingers. "Today."

We hugged goodbye.

I walked out of the restaurant, feeling a strange, heady sense of lightness.

Then the screaming started.

An older couple, dressed in shabby, theatrical clothes, threw themselves onto the pavement directly in front of me.

"Please!" the woman wailed, grabbing the hem of my coat with dirty fingers. "Please, Mrs. Moretti! Have mercy!"

People stopped. Phones came out.

"Who are you?" I asked, stepping back in confusion.

"We are Sofia's parents!" the man shouted, playing to the gallery. "Adoptive parents! You threaten our daughter! You try to kill her baby because you are jealous!"

"That's a lie," I said, looking around at the gathering crowd, panic rising in my throat.

"We beg you!" the woman screamed, tearing at her hair. "Let Dante and his true love be! Stop blocking the heir! You are barren! Let him be happy!"

The crowd murmured, the sound like a hive of angry bees.

"That's the wife," someone whispered. "The one who can't have kids."

"She looks evil," another said.

"Get off me," I said, trying to pull my coat free.

The woman lunged.

She grabbed my hair.

"Murderer!" she shrieked. "You want to kill the baby!"

I pushed her away. It was a reflex, nothing more.

She threw herself backward.

She hit the ground with a theatrical thud and started screaming in feigned agony.

"My back! She broke my back!"

The crowd turned on me instantly.

"Hey!" a man shouted. "Don't touch her!"

A soda can hit my shoulder, spraying sticky liquid onto my coat.

Then a piece of trash hit my face.

"Leave them alone!"

"Rich bitch!"

They were closing in.

The mob justice was swift and blind.

I backed up against the brick wall of the restaurant.

I saw the blinding flashes of cameras.

I saw the hate in their eyes.

This was Sofia's doing.

She had staged this.

She knew I was leaving. She wanted to destroy me publicly before I could go.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

But not police sirens.

Black SUVs screeched to a halt at the curb, mounting the sidewalk.

Moretti soldiers poured out.

Dante stepped out of the lead car.

He looked at the "parents" writhing on the ground.

He looked at the trash in my hair.

He walked over to me.

His face was unreadable-a mask of stone.

"Get in the car," he said.

"They attacked me," I said, my voice trembling. "It's a setup."

"Get. In. The. Car."

He shoved me into the backseat.

Sofia was there. Again.

She was crying into a delicate lace handkerchief.

"My poor parents," she sobbed. "I told them not to come. I told them you were dangerous."

Dante got in.

He looked at me in the rearview mirror.

His eyes were cold.

"I thought you had dignity, Elena. Attacking old people in the street?"

"They aren't her parents," I said, my voice hard. "Her parents are dead. That's why you swore the oath."

"They are the ones who raised me!" Sofia wailed.

"Enough," Dante snapped. "You've caused enough of a scene."

He looked at me with disgust.

"You're unstable. Maybe the rumors are true. Maybe the Russians broke your mind."

I stared at him.

I looked at the man I had loved for ten years.

And I felt the last thread connecting us snap.

I started to laugh.

It was a cold, hollow sound that scraped against my throat.

"Yes," I said. "I'm the villain. I'm the monster. You caught me."

Dante frowned.

"Stop laughing."

"I can't," I gasped, tears streaming down my face. "It's just so funny, Dante. You think you're the King."

I leaned forward, my face close to the grate between us.

"But you're just the Jester in her court."

He slammed on the brakes.

He turned around, his hand raised to strike.

I didn't flinch.

I looked him dead in the eye.

"Do it," I whispered. "Finish what you started."

He froze.

His hand lowered slowly.

He saw the dead look in my eyes.

He turned back to the road and drove in silence.

He didn't know it yet.

But he was driving a hearse.

And the corpse in the backseat wasn't a person; it was his marriage.

Elena Falcone POV

The silence inside the car was suffocating, heavier than a gunshot.

Dante didn't hit me.

He didn't scream.

He just drove, his knuckles bleached white against the leather steering wheel, his jaw working so hard I expected his molars to shatter.

Beside me, Sofia was still whimpering-a low, pathetic sound that grated against my nerves like sandpaper on raw skin.

"We're going to the hospital," Dante said finally, his voice a rough gravel. "To check on Sofia. And you."

"I don't need a doctor." I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of neon. "I need a lawyer."

"You need a psychiatrist," he shot back.

We pulled up to the emergency entrance.

Moretti soldiers were already there, securing the perimeter like a presidential guard.

Dante got out and opened Sofia's door. He helped her out with a tenderness that made bile rise in my throat.

I opened my own door.

My legs felt heavy, as if my veins were filled with lead.

We walked into the private waiting area.

The moment the automatic doors slid shut behind us, Sofia's crying ceased.

She turned to me.

Her face wasn't tear-stained anymore. It was twisted in a vicious sneer.

She raised her hand and slapped me.

The sound echoed sharply off the sterile walls.

My head snapped to the side. The sting was sharp, hot, and strangely grounding.

"You bitch!" Sofia shrieked, ramping up the volume for the benefit of the nurses outside. "You tried to kill my parents! You want my baby dead!"

Dante stepped between us, catching Sofia as she feigned a collapse.

He looked at me.

His eyes were two chips of glacial ice.

"I thought you were better than this, Elena," he said, disappointment dripping from his tone. "I thought you had class. Attacking old people? Assaulting a pregnant woman?"

I touched my cheek. It was throbbing.

And then it bubbled up inside me.

A laugh.

It started in my chest, a dark, jagged thing, and clawed its way out of my throat.

I laughed until my ribs ached. I laughed until tears streamed down my face, mixing with the dust and the dried blood from the chandelier accident.

"Class?" I gasped, struggling for air. "You talk to me about class while you parade your mistress around like a queen? You talk to me about honor while you bury your own wife?"

"She's hysterical," Sofia sobbed into Dante's chest, burrowing closer. "Dante, I'm scared. My stomach... it hurts."

Dante's face went pale.

He scooped her up into his arms, his focus shifting entirely to the woman who had just assaulted me.

"Get a doctor!" he roared at the staff.

He turned his back on me.

"Go home, Elena," he threw over his shoulder. "Get out of my sight before I do something I regret."

He carried her down the hall.

I stood alone in the waiting room.

The elevator dinged.

I stepped inside.

The metal doors slid shut, cutting off the sight of my husband rushing another woman to safety.

I leaned my forehead against the cool steel and closed my eyes.

I didn't cry.

I was done crying.

I went back to the Villa.

I slept for twelve hours. It was the sleep of the dead.

I dreamed of college.

I dreamed that Dante was standing under the oak tree on campus, holding a sketchbook I had dropped. He was smiling, that crooked, charming smile that had made me fall in love with the devil.

I will never let anyone hurt you, Elena.

The dream twisted.

The oak tree morphed into a gallows.

Dante was the executioner.

And the rope around my neck was woven from Sofia's hair.

I woke up gasping.

The sun was streaming through the windows, but the room felt cold.

I heard noise downstairs. Heavy boots. The sound of furniture being moved.

I put on a silk robe and walked out into the hallway.

Movers were carrying boxes up the grand staircase.

Dante stood at the landing, directing them.

"Careful with that vanity," he ordered. "It's an antique."

I recognized the vanity.

It was from the guest house.

"What is happening?" I asked, my voice raspy from sleep.

Dante looked up. There was no guilt in his eyes, only irritation that I was awake.

"Sofia's parents are in the hospital because of your stunt," he said. "She can't stay at the safe house alone. She needs medical monitoring."

He gestured to the room next to ours. The Master Suite.

"She's moving in," he said.

"Into the Villa?" I asked.

"Into the main wing," he corrected. "Closer to me. In case of emergencies."

He was moving his mistress into the bedroom next to his wife.

He was erasing the last boundary.

"I see," I said.

"It's temporary," he added, as if that made it better. "Just until the baby comes."

"Of course," I said.

I turned around and walked back into my room.

I locked the door.

I didn't scream. I didn't throw things.

I walked to the closet and pulled out my travel bag.

I wasn't staying another night under this roof.

The lease on my soul had finally expired.

Elena Falcone POV:

For the next two days, I haunted my own home like a specter.

I clung to the shadows, avoiding the main wing. I avoided the dining room where silence sat heavy at the table.

Instead, I barricaded myself in my studio, painting canvas after canvas in shades of absolute black.

But ghosts cannot hide forever. Eventually, they must face the living.

I was descending the back service stairs, seeking a glass of water, when Sofia intercepted me.

She had draped one of my favorite silk shawls over her shoulders, claiming my warmth as her own.

She looked healthy. Radiant, even.

"You're still here?" she asked, her fingers trailing possessively over the mahogany banister. "I thought you would have fled back to New York by now."

"Step aside, Sofia."

She moved closer instead, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr.

"You know, Dante is so stressed," she whispered, feigning sympathy. "He worries constantly about the baby. It's sweet, really. Considering."

"Considering what?"

Her lips curled-a viper finally revealing its fangs.

"Considering it isn't his."

The world seemed to stop. "What?"

"Oh, please," she laughed, a light, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. "Dante is too noble for his own good. He thinks he is saving me from the Outfit. He doesn't realize the father is actually Sergei."

Sergei. The Russian enforcer who had led the ambush against us.

My stomach churned violently.

"You are carrying a Russian soldier's child," I hissed, my voice trembling. "And you are letting Dante claim it as the heir to the Chicago Outfit?"

"It's poetic, isn't it?" she mused, her eyes dancing with malice. "The Moretti fortune will pass to the Bratva. And Dante will thank me for the privilege."

"I'm going to tell him," I said, taking a threatening step forward.

"Who will he believe?" she countered, her gaze gleaming with triumph. "The unstable, barren wife? Or the fragile, frightened mother of his 'son'?"

Just then, the heavy thud of the front door echoed from below.

Footsteps approached.

Dante was home.

Sofia's mask shifted instantly. Terror replaced arrogance.

She threw herself backward, seizing the railing.

"No, Elena! Don't!"

She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my flesh, and yanked me down with her.

We tumbled down the last three steps in a tangle of limbs.

My head cracked against the banister.

Pain shattered behind my eyes, exploding into white stars.

Sofia landed on the thick plush carpet, screaming bloody murder.

"My baby! She pushed me! Dante, help!"

The foyer seemed to burst open with noise.

Dante rushed in, his weapon already drawn.

He took in the scene: us at the bottom of the stairs.

He saw me struggling to stand, clutching my throbbing skull.

He saw Sofia curling into a protective ball, sobbing hysterically.

He holstered his gun and fell to his knees beside her.

"Sofia!"

"She pushed me," Sofia wept, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She said she wanted it dead."

Dante looked up at me.

There was no love in his gaze. No conflict. No hesitation.

Just pure, unadulterated disgust.

"Get up," he spat.

I hauled myself up using the railing, the room spinning around me.

"She told me..." I began, my voice raspy.

"Silence!" His roar shook the walls.

"I am done with your jealousy, Elena. I am done with your lies."

He helped Sofia to her feet with infinite tenderness.

"Go to your room. If you step foot out of it before I allow it, I will lock you in the cellar myself."

He guided Sofia away, murmuring soft comforts into her hair.

I stood there, swaying, watching them disappear into the living room.

"It's over," I whispered to the empty, echoing foyer.

I climbed the stairs.

I did not go to the master bedroom.

I went to the safe hidden in the back of the closet.

I retrieved the separation papers I had drafted days ago.

I took out the medical file from the private clinic. The ultrasound of the empty womb. The invoice for the termination of a pregnancy he never knew existed.

I placed them all inside a plain white box.

I packed my paints. I packed my brushes.

I packed nothing else. No clothes. No jewelry.

I was leaving everything Dante Moretti had ever given me.

Dante appeared at the open door an hour later.

He didn't cross the threshold. He stood in the frame, a looming shadow.

"Tonight is Sofia's birthday gala," he said stiffly, his voice devoid of warmth. "You will not attend. You are a liability."

"Understood," I said, not lifting my eyes from my sketchbook.

"However," he continued, shifting his weight. "Appearances must be maintained. You will send a gift. Something personal. To show the Family there is no bad blood."

I paused.

"A gift," I repeated slowly. "You want me to send a gift to your mistress."

"It is for the Family, Elena. Do it."

He turned on his heel and walked away.

I looked at the white box resting on my desk.

"A gift," I murmured.

I picked up a pen and wrote a note on the card stock.

To Dante. The truth will set you free.

I called a private courier service.

Ten minutes later, I handed the box to the young man waiting at the gate.

"Deliver this to the Grand Ballroom at exactly 9:00 PM," I instructed, pressing a hundred-dollar bill into his palm. "Hand it directly to Mr. Moretti."

He nodded, pocketed the cash, and drove off.

I walked back toward the Villa, but I did not go inside.

I walked through the garden, slipped out the back gate, and slid into the black sedan waiting in the alley.

My brother, Rocco, was behind the wheel.

I didn't look back.