The sharp sting of antiseptic is the scent of my marriage.

I sat on the crinkling paper of the exam table in the private clinic owned by the Family. My silk dress was cut away, lying in a discarded heap on the floor.

The doctor applied a cooling gel to the second-degree burns across my chest. He worked in silence, his eyes fixed strictly on the wounds. He knew better than to ask questions.

The door opened.

Ethan walked in.

He had removed his tuxedo jacket. His white shirt was crisp, unblemished. The chaos of the evening hadn't left a mark on him. Not a drop of soup had touched him.

"How is she?" Ethan asked the doctor.

He didn't look at my face. He looked at the burns.

"She will heal," the doctor said, his voice low. "It will scar, though. The soup was boiling."

Ethan nodded, as if receiving a report on a damaged shipment of guns.

"Leave us."

The doctor slipped out of the room instantly.

Ethan stepped closer. The scent of his cologne-sandalwood and cold rain-mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood he always carried. It filled my nose, overpowering the sterile air.

He reached out, his fingers hovering over the raw, blistered skin.

I flinched.

His hand dropped to his side.

"Ilene is sedated," he said.

I didn't answer. The pain in my chest was a throbbing drumbeat, syncing with the rage building in my throat.

"She didn't mean to do it, Rory. She saw the ring. It triggered an episode."

I looked at him then.

I looked into the eyes of the man who ruled the underworld, the man who terrified the police and politicians alike. And I didn't see a monster.

I saw a coward.

"She threw boiling soup on me in a Michelin-star restaurant, Ethan. That wasn't an episode. That was assault."

"Lower your voice."

"No."

I slid off the table, clutching the thin hospital gown to my chest to cover my exposure.

"I want to go home."

"You can't go to the Estate," he said.

My stomach dropped.

"Why?"

"I moved Ilene into the Guest Wing. She needs constant supervision. The doctors say she is a flight risk if she's alone."

I laughed.

It was a dry, brittle sound, like dead leaves crushing underfoot.

"So I am the one leaving. Again."

"It's for your safety, Aurora."

"Don't use that word," I snapped.

My voice cracked.

"Don't you dare talk to me about safety. You are the Underboss. You command an army. You protect drug shipments, casinos, and politicians. But you can't protect your wife from one five-foot-four mental patient?"

Ethan grabbed my arm.

His grip was iron.

"Watch your mouth. Ilene is family. Her father took a bullet for mine. I owe her my life."

"And what do you owe me?" I whispered.

He froze.

His eyes searched mine, looking for the submissive girl he married. But she wasn't there anymore.

She had burned away with the silk dress.

"I owe you everything," he said, his voice rough. "That is why I am sending you to the penthouse downtown. You will be safe there."

He let go of my arm.

He checked his watch.

"I have to get back to her. She wakes up screaming if I'm not in the room."

He turned and walked out.

He left his injured wife alone in a cold clinic to go hold the hand of the woman who burned her.

I looked at the door.

The lock didn't keep people out.

It kept me in.

Instead of going to the penthouse, I took a cab straight to the Estate.

It was a fortress of stone and iron, built to withstand sieges from rival families, but the true enemy was already inside.

I swept through the front doors, ignoring the shocked expressions of the guards. They didn't dare stop me.

I was still the Donna, even if my husband treated me like a mistress.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

I headed toward the main staircase. At the top of the landing, the gallery wall stretched out-a space that was supposed to be covered in our wedding photos. They were large, black-and-white prints of the day two crime families merged.

Now, the wall was bare.

The frames lay shattered on the marble floor below, and glass crunched ominously under my heels.

I looked up.

Ilene stood at the top of the stairs. She was wearing one of my silk robes, looking like a wraith-pale and smiling.

"I thought they looked better down there," she said.

Her voice echoed in the cavernous hall.

"Get out of my house, Ilene."

She tilted her head. "Ethan said this is my house now. He said you were going away for a long time."

Rage, hot and blinding, flooded my veins.

I started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I didn't care about her fragility. I didn't care about her dead father. I was going to drag her out by her hair.

When I reached the top landing, Ilene didn't back away.

Instead, she stepped forward.

She placed her hands on my shoulders. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

"You are in the way," she whispered.

Then, she shoved.

It wasn't a stumble. It was a calculated, forceful push.

My heels slipped on the polished marble, and gravity took over.

I fell backward.

The world spun.

My back hit the edge of a step with a sickening crack.

My head slammed against the banister.

I tumbled down, a ragdoll of limbs and pain, finally crashing through the shards of my own wedding photos at the bottom.

I lay on the cold floor as darkness crept into the edges of my vision. I couldn't move my legs.

Through the haze, I saw the front door open.

Ethan walked in.

He stopped dead.

He looked at me, broken and bleeding on the floor, before shifting his gaze to the top of the stairs.

Ilene was screaming, fake tears streaming down her face.

"She slipped! Ethan! She tried to hit me and she slipped!"

Ethan looked back at me.

He didn't run to check my pulse.

Instead, he pulled out his phone.

"Erase the security tapes in the main hall," he ordered into the device.

Then he looked at his head of security.

"Get the car. We need to get Ilene out of here before the police come."

Without a second glance, he stepped over my body to get to her.

The hospital room felt different this time.

It was sterile, blindingly white, and it smelled of lies.

A heavy plaster cast anchored my leg to the bed, a dead weight against the crisp sheets.

Every shallow breath hitched against the cage of my three broken ribs.

Behind my eyes, a concussion throbbed a dull, rhythmic warning.

But the worst injury was the clarity.

It sliced through the haze of painkillers with brutal precision, refusing to let me sink back into oblivion.

I reached for the phone resting on the bedside table.

My fingers trembled, not just from weakness, but from resolve.

I dialed three numbers.