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.

Three days of silence passed before Dante came home with a box.

It was a large, black velvet box with the logo of a French designer emblazoned in gold foil.

He placed it on the bed.

I was sitting by the window, staring blindly at a book I hadn't turned the page of in an hour. My leg was still bandaged, a constant throb reminding me of the kitchen incident.

We hadn't spoken since then.

He had taken to the guest room. Or maybe he didn't sleep here at all. I had stopped checking.

"For you," he said.

His voice was devoid of emotion. It was a transactional offering. A cold peace treaty.

I looked at the box. "What is it?"

"A dress," he replied. "For the Gala on Saturday."

The Outfit's annual charity gala. The night where murderers played at being philanthropists.

"I'm not going," I said.

"You are," Dante said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You are the Capo's wife. You will be by my side."

She has to go. It keeps the rumors at bay.

Rumors that his marriage was failing. Rumors that he was sleeping with Sofia.

I stood up, limping slightly, and walked to the bed.

I opened the box.

The dress was stunning. Emerald green silk, backless, with a slit that would show off my good leg. It was exactly my size. It was exactly my style.

I reached out to touch the fabric.

And then I smelled it.

Vanilla. Cheap, cloying vanilla.

My hand froze mid-air. I leaned closer, inhaling sharply. It wasn't just on the fabric. It was embedded in the fibers.

Someone had worn this. Someone had sprayed perfume on her neck while wearing this dress.

Sofia.

The image flashed in my mind. Sofia, twirling in front of a mirror. Dante watching her.

Does it fit?

Like a glove, Dante. Do you like it?

Take it off. It's for Elena.

He had let her try it on. He had bought a dress for his wife and let his mistress model it first. I was getting sloppy seconds. I was wearing the skin she had shed.

Nausea rose in my throat, violent and acidic. I slammed the lid of the box shut.

"Did she look good in it?" I asked.

My voice was dead calm.

Dante stiffened. "What?"

"Sofia," I said, looking up at him. "Did she look good in my dress?"

Dante's eyes shifted. A microscopic movement. But I saw it.

How does she know?

"She was at the boutique," Dante said, his voice tight. "She helped me pick it out. She held it up to check the length."

"Liar," I whispered.

"I am not lying!" Dante snapped. "Why are you so obsessed with her?"

"Because you smell like her!" I screamed. "My dress smells like her! My house smells like her! My entire life reeks of her!"

I grabbed the box and shoved it off the bed. It hit the floor with a heavy thud.

"I am not wearing that," I said. "And I am not going to your gala."

Dante stepped forward, his face dark with fury. "You will wear it," he snarled. "And you will smile. And you will pretend to be a dutiful wife. Or so help me God, Elena..."

"Or what?" I challenged him. "You'll kill me? Go ahead. It would be a mercy."

Dante stared at me. His chest heaved. He looked like he wanted to shake me. Or kiss me. Or strangle me.

I just want peace. Why can't she just give me peace?

"If you want peace," I said, answering his unspoken thought, "then let me go."

Dante froze. "What?"

"An annulment," I said. "Let me go. You can have Sofia. You can have the penthouse. You can have the peace."

Dante's face went blank. Cold. The mask was back.

"No," he said.

"Why?"

"Because you are mine," he said. "Till death."

He turned and walked out of the room. He didn't slam the door. He closed it softly. Like he was closing a casket.

I stood there, staring at the closed door. He wouldn't let me go. He would keep me here, tormented and humiliated, until I withered away.

I looked down at the dress box on the floor.

I wasn't going to wither.

I walked to the closet and pulled out a suitcase. I didn't pack clothes. I packed cash. I packed my passport.

I packed the small revolver my father had given me on my eighteenth birthday.

I wasn't going to the Gala. I was going to the one place where the devil couldn't find me. Or so I hoped.

I pulled out my phone and texted Gianna.

Tonight. The train station. 1 AM.

The reply came ten seconds later.

I'm in.

I looked at the wedding ring on my finger. The diamond was huge, flawless, and cold. I pulled it off.

I placed it on the nightstand, right next to the vanilla-scented dress.

"Till death," I whispered to the empty room.

I grabbed my bag.

"I choose life."