"She can't stay at the Estate," I said.

My voice was steady, a practiced calm that betrayed nothing of the magma rising in my chest.

We were back in the SUV, the city lights sliding over the leather interior like streaks of oil.

Sofia was curled in the backseat, swallowed by Dante's suit jacket-the very same jacket I had meticulously brushed lint off of this morning.

She was feigning sleep, her breathing shallow and even, but I knew better. Her mind was wide awake, calculating.

Look at her. The ice queen. She thinks she owns him. The thought wasn't mine, but I could practically hear it radiating from her.

Dante gripped the steering wheel with such force that the leather groaned under his knuckles.

"She has nowhere to go, Elena. The Russians burned her apartment building."

"So put her in a hotel," I countered, my patience fraying. "The Plaza. The Ritz. We own half the city, Dante. Why does she need to be in our sanctuary?"

"Because she is a target," Dante said, his voice dropping into a register that vibrated with dark authority. "Her husband died for this family. I owe her protection."

I promised him. On his deathbed, I promised I would look after her.

The unspoken vow hung heavy in the air, laden with a guilt that tasted like ash.

It wasn't love. Not yet. It was honor.

But honor was a slippery slope when a woman like Sofia was involved.

"There are safehouses," I pressed. "Apartments we keep off the books."

Dante shot me a glance, his annoyance sharp.

"They are cold. Empty. She is grieving."

"And I am your wife," I said, twisting in my seat to face him fully. "Do you think it is appropriate to have another woman sleeping down the hall from the bed where we sleep?"

Dante didn't answer.

He didn't have to. His silence was a deafening verdict.

"Fine," I said, clipping the word. "If not a hotel, then Aria's old place. It's furnished. It's secure. It's in a building full of our soldiers."

Dante frowned, confusion flickering across his features. "Aria?"

"Luca's wife," I said. "She moved out last week. She's staying with her sister."

I watched the surprise register in his eyes. He didn't know.

He didn't pay attention to the quiet tragedies of the women in the organization. We were merely background noise to his symphony of violence.

"Call her," Dante commanded.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Aria. She answered on the second ring, her voice sounding thin, worn down to the wire.

"Elena?"

"I need a favor," I said. "Is your apartment still empty?"

"Yes," Aria said. "Why?"

"Dante needs a safe place for a... guest. A widow."

There was a pause, heavy with understanding.

"Is it Sofia?" Aria asked.

I blinked. "How did you know?"

"Word travels," Aria said dryly. "And Luca mentioned Dante was... distracted lately."

My stomach twisted into a knot. Even the soldiers knew.

"Can we use it?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain neutral.

"Take the keys," Aria said. "I'm not going back there. Too many ghosts."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the 24-hour diner on 5th. Come get them."

We drove to the diner. Dante stayed in the car with Sofia. Of course he did.

I walked into the neon-drenched establishment, the air smelling of stale coffee and regret.

Aria was sitting in a booth in the back, staring into a cup of black coffee as if it held the secrets of the universe.

She looked like she hadn't slept in days. There was a bruise on her wrist, fading to a sickly yellow.

She saw me looking at it and tugged her sleeve down sharply.

"Here," she said, sliding a set of keys across the Formica table.

"Thank you," I said.

Aria looked up at me, her eyes dark and hollowed out.

"Be careful, Elena," she whispered.

"With Sofia?"

"With Dante," she said. "These men... they don't see us. They only see what we can do for them. Or what we represent."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "If you have a way out... take it."

I took the keys, the metal cold against my palm. "I don't run, Aria," I said. "I fight."

Aria smiled sadly, a ghost of an expression. "That's what I thought, too."

I walked back to the car, the keys biting into my hand.

Dante was leaning over the backseat, talking to Sofia. He was smiling.

A small, rare smile that softened the harsh, marble lines of his face-a smile I hadn't seen in months.

He pulled back when he saw me, the mask slamming back into place instantly.

"You got them?" he asked.

I tossed the keys into his lap. "She stays there," I said. "Tonight."

Dante started the engine.

She is heartless. A spoiled princess who has never known loss. The thought hit me like a physical slap, though he hadn't spoken a word.

I stared out the window, watching the city blur into streaks of light. He thought I was heartless.

He didn't know that my heart was the only thing anchoring me to this wretched life.

We dropped Sofia off. She clung to Dante's hand for a moment too long before getting out.

"Thank you, Dante," she said, her voice trembling perfectly. "I don't know what I would do without you."

I'll have him in my bed within a month. The projection was so loud, so vicious, I almost flinched.

Dante waited until she was safely inside the building before driving away. The silence in the car was suffocating, thick with unsaid words.

"You were rude to her," Dante said finally.

"I was practical," I shot back.

"She is family," Dante snapped. "Her husband was one of my men."

"And I am your wife!" I shouted, the dam finally breaking. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Dante slammed on the brakes at a red light, the SUV jerking to a violent halt.

He turned to me, his eyes blazing with cold fire.

"Marriage is a duty, Elena. It is a contract. Don't confuse it with a romance novel."

It is a liability. A distraction I cannot afford. His thoughts were clear. Brutally, painfully clear.

He didn't see a partner. He saw a chain.

I looked at him, really looked at him. The man I had tried to love. The man I had hoped would see past the rumors and the cold exterior.

And I realized Aria was right.

He didn't see me. And he never would.

I sat back in my seat, the fight draining out of me like water from a cracked vessel.

"Drive," I whispered.

As the car moved forward, my hand drifted to my pocket. My fingers brushed against the edge of my phone.

I had said I wouldn't run. But one cannot fight a war for a man who has already surrendered you.

I opened the browser and typed two words.

Las Vegas.

The glass walls of Dante's office were designed to project transparency, yet everything that transpired within was shrouded in deliberate shadow.

I stood outside the door, my hand hovering over the brushed steel handle.

I needed to know. More importantly, I needed proof.

My instincts screamed in whispers, but whispers were not evidence.

Whispers wouldn't hold up before the Commission if I demanded an annulment.

I pushed the door open.

Silence greeted me. The office was empty.

Dante was in a meeting with the Don.

I had twenty minutes.

I moved to his desk, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I wasn't a spy.

I was a wife looking for the truth her husband refused to speak.

I opened the top drawer.

Guns. Ammunition. Stacks of cash banded in fifties.

Standard equipment for a Capo.

I opened the second drawer.

Files.

Soldier rotations. Shipping manifests. Payoffs.

Nothing about Sofia.

I felt a prickle of frustration heat my skin.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe the whispers were just paranoia fueled by insecurity.

Then I saw his jacket.

It was draped over the back of his leather chair like a dark shroud.

The same jacket he had worn when he dropped Sofia off last night.

I reached into the inside pocket.

My fingers brushed against crisp paper.

I pulled it out.

It was a deed. A property transfer.

Penthouse 4B, The Obsidian Tower.

A luxury building in Manhattan.

The buyer was a shell company, "DC Holdings."

The beneficiary line was blank, but there was a sticky note attached to the front.

"She needs a view. - S"

S.

Sofia.

He bought her a penthouse.

While he lectured me about safety and safehouses, he was buying her a multi-million dollar apartment.

The sudden click of the latch shattered the silence.

I froze.

I shoved the paper back into the pocket just as Dante walked in.

He stopped, his eyes narrowing instantly.

"What are you doing?"

His voice was low, laced with danger.

"I was... looking for a pen," I lied.

It was a weak lie, brittle and transparent.

Dante closed the door behind him and locked it.

The sound of the lock engaging echoed in the silent room like a gunshot.

He walked toward me, slow and predatory.

She's lying. What did she see?

"Your study is stocked with pens, Elena."

He stopped inches from me.

I could smell him.

Sandalwood, gunpowder, and the faint, lingering stench of her cheap vanilla perfume.

It made me nauseous.

"I wanted one of yours," I said, lifting my chin in defiance. "Is that a crime?"

Dante studied my face.

He reached out and grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my skin.

"Lying to me is a crime."

He kissed me.

It wasn't a kiss of affection.

It was a kiss of possession.

He was marking his territory, reminding me who owned me.

His tongue invaded my mouth, demanding submission.

I felt his anger, his frustration, and beneath it all, a dark, twisted desire.

She is mine. Even if she is a spy, she is mine.

He thought I was spying for my father.

He didn't trust me at all.

The injustice of it burned through me like acid.

I was trying to save our marriage, and he was treating me like an enemy.

I bit down.

Hard.

I tasted the metallic tang of blood.

Dante pulled back, a hiss of pain escaping his lips.

He touched his mouth, his fingers coming away red.

He looked at the blood, then at me.

His eyes darkened.

Not with anger.

With something else.

Arousal.

She has teeth.

"You bit me," he said, his voice rough.

"You forced me," I spat.

"I don't force," Dante said, stepping closer again. "I take what is given."

"I gave you nothing!"

I shoved past him, my hands trembling.

I needed to get out of there before I screamed.

Before I told him I knew about the penthouse.

I reached the door and fumbled with the lock.

"Elena," he called out.

I stopped, my back to him.

"Don't come into my office again."

It was a warning.

I turned to look at him one last time.

He was leaning against the desk, the bloody lip making him look savage.

"Don't worry, Dante," I said, my voice hollow. "I won't be returning to your office. Or your bed."

I unlocked the door and walked out.

I walked straight to the guest room.

I locked that door too.

I sat on the bed and pulled out my phone.

I searched for The Obsidian Tower.

It was real.

And it was ready for occupancy next week.

He was moving her in.

He was setting up a second life.

And I was just the contract that made it possible.

Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them back.

Crying was for victims.

I wasn't a victim.

I was a Vitiello.

And if he wanted a war, I would give him one.

But first, I needed to talk to Gianna.

I needed to know if running was really an option.

Because staying here, watching him build a life with another woman while I rotted in his golden cage...

That was a death sentence.

The pungent aroma of spicy tomato sauce saturated the kitchen, barely masking the acrid scent of betrayal that hung heavy in the air.

Sofia was in my house.

Again.

She stood at the stove, stirring a pot, wearing an apron that looked ridiculous over her skintight dress.

"I just wanted to say thank you," she said, her voice saccharine. "For the apartment. It's... cozy."

She hated it.

Dump. Rat hole. I deserve better.

I stood in the doorway, my arms crossed over my chest, creating a barrier.

"You shouldn't be cooking," I said coolly. "We have staff."

"Oh, I insist," Sofia beamed, tapping the spoon against the rim. "Dante loves my arrabbiata. He used to say it was the only thing that warmed him up."

She looked at me, her eyes glinting with a sharp, calculated malice.

He never talks about your cooking. Does he even eat with you?

She knew.

She knew our dinners were silent affairs, eaten in the cold dining room with ten feet of mahogany between us.

Dante walked in then.

He had a bandage on his lip from where I had bitten him yesterday.

He looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes deep.

"It smells good," he said.

He didn't look at me.

He went straight to the counter where Sofia was working.

She preened under his attention like a cat stretching in the sun.

"Taste," she said, offering him a spoon.

He took it.

He tasted it.

"Good," he grunted.

"Just like old times," Sofia whispered.

I felt like I was invisible.

A ghost in my own home.

"I'm not hungry," I said, turning to leave.

"Elena, stay," Dante said. It was an order, low and vibrating with warning. "We will eat together."

"I'd rather eat glass," I muttered.

Sofia turned, holding the pot with both hands.

"Oh, Elena, please. I made it for-"

She stumbled.

It was a performance worthy of an Oscar.

Her foot caught on absolutely nothing.

She lurched forward.

The pot of boiling red sauce flew from her hands.

Straight at me.

I saw it coming.

My mind screamed Move!

But I didn't move fast enough.

The hot sauce splashed against my legs, soaking instantly through my jeans.

"Ah!" I cried out, the pain sharp, scalding, and immediate.

Sofia screamed. "Oh my god! I'm so clumsy!"

Burn, you bitch.

The thought was so vicious, so clear, it made me dizzy.

Dante was moving before the pot even hit the floor.

He rushed toward us.

But who was he rushing to?

Sofia was sobbing, holding her wrist like she had sprained it.

"Dante, I'm so sorry! My wrist gave out!"

I sank to the floor, clutching my burning leg.

The room spun.

I decided to let it spin.

I let my eyes roll back.

I went limp.

It was a gamble.

A test.

"Elena!"

Dante's voice was a roar.

He didn't stop at Sofia.

He stepped over the spilled sauce, ignoring Sofia's cries, and scooped me up into his arms.

"Call the doctor!" he bellowed at the staff who had rushed in.

He carried me out of the kitchen, his chest heaving.

I kept my eyes closed, listening to the frantic rhythm of his heart against my ear.

He was terrified.

For me.

For a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe it was love.

He carried me to the living room and laid me on the sofa.

"Get scissors!" he yelled.

He began to cut my jeans away from the burn.

His hands were gentle, yet shaking slightly.

"You're okay," he muttered. "You're okay, Elena."

The doctor arrived minutes later.

He treated the burns. They were second-degree, painful but not life-threatening.

I opened my eyes as the doctor was wrapping my leg.

Dante was kneeling beside me, his face pale.

"What happened?" he asked.

"She threw it at me," I whispered.

Dante blinked.

"What?"

"Sofia," I said, my voice raspy. "She looked me in the eye and threw the pot."

Dante stood up, his expression hardening as the fear receded, replaced by defensive walls.

"Elena, she tripped. I saw it."

"You saw what she wanted you to see," I said. "I heard her, Dante. She thought it. Burn, you bitch."

Dante ran a hand over his face.

"Stop it," he said. "Stop with the paranoia. She is a grieving widow who made a mistake."

"She is a snake!" I cried, trying to sit up.

"She wants to replace me!"

"She has nothing!" Dante shouted back. "She is alone! Why can't you have a shred of compassion?"

She is jealous. It is pathetic.

The thought cut deeper than the burn.

He thought I was jealous.

He thought I was the villain.

I fell back against the cushions, defeated.

"Get out," I whispered.

"Elena-"

"Get out!"

Dante stared at me for a long moment.

Then he turned and walked away.

He didn't go to check on Sofia.

He went to his study.

To drink.

To escape his crazy, jealous wife.

I lay there, the pain in my leg throbbing in time with my heart.

He would never believe me.

As long as she played the victim, I would always be the aggressor.

I looked at the ceiling.

Las Vegas wasn't just a plan anymore.

It was a necessity.

I needed to leave.

Before she killed me.

Or before I killed her.