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."

Elena Vitiello POV

The iron gates of the Estate were usually a symbol of protection, but tonight, looming against the dark sky, they looked like the bars of a high-security prison.

I had my bag. I had my gun.

And tucked deep into my coat pocket, I had the shreds of my dignity.

I walked down the long, winding driveway, the gravel crunching violently under my boots.

I wasn't sneaking out.

I was walking out.

If the guards tried to stop me, I would shoot. I wouldn't hesitate.

I was done being a pawn in a game where the rules changed every time I rolled the dice.

I reached the gatehouse.

The guard, a young man named Marco, stepped out. He looked skittish, his eyes darting between me and the main house.

"Mrs. Cavallaro," he stammered. "It's late. Does the Capo know you're leaving?"

"The Capo is busy," I said, my voice brittle like ice. "Open the gate, Marco."

He hesitated. His hand hovered over his radio.

Before he could press the button, a car pulled up on the other side of the gate. A taxi.

The door opened, and she stepped out.

Sofia.

She wasn't injured. She wasn't grieving.

She was wearing a tight red dress and a coat that cost more than Marco made in a year.

She saw me through the bars. A slow, venomous smile spread across her face.

"Running away, Princess?" she called out.

Her voice was light, teasing. But her eyes were a sewer.

I could practically hear the triumph screaming in her mind: Finally. The weak little bitch is folding. I didn't even have to try that hard.

I felt the rage ignite in my chest. It wasn't a spark; it was a flamethrower.

"Open the gate," I ordered Marco.

He buzzed it open, too confused to argue.

I stepped through, meeting Sofia on the pavement just as the taxi driver pulled away.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Dante called me," she lied. "He said he needed comfort. He said you were... cold."

He didn't call, my instincts whispered. But he won't turn me away. He never does.

"You are a cancer," I said. "You are eating him alive."

Sofia laughed. She stepped closer, breaching my space.

The smell of vanilla hit me again. It was the same scent from the dress.

"Did you like it?" she whispered. "The green silk? It felt amazing against my skin. Dante watched me zip it up. He watched me take it off, too."

I could see the cruel glint in her eyes, telling me exactly what she had done: I made sure to rub my scent all over it. I wanted you to smell me on him.

The world went red.

I didn't think. I didn't calculate.

I swung my hand.

My palm connected with her cheek with a sound like a pistol crack.

Sofia stumbled back, clutching her face. She didn't fight back. She didn't scream at me.

Instead, she looked past me, her eyes widening in mock terror.

"Elena! Please! Stop!"

I froze.

I heard the engine before I saw the headlights. The black SUV screeched to a halt right next to us.

Dante.

He jumped out of the car before it even fully stopped. He was wearing his tuxedo for the Gala. He looked magnificent.

And he looked lethal.

"What the hell is going on?" he roared.

Sofia threw herself at him.

"She hit me! Dante, she's crazy! I just came to drop off the keys to the apartment, and she attacked me!"

Dante caught her, his hands going to her waist to steady her. He looked at her red cheek. Then he looked at me.

His eyes were abyssal voids.

"You struck her?"

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

"She provoked me," I said. "She told me she wore the dress. She told me-"

"Enough!" Dante bellowed.

His voice echoed off the stone walls.

"Look at her, Elena! She is half your size. She is a widow. And you are behaving like a common street thug."

I saw the judgment harden his features. He looked at me as if Vitale's warnings were finally ringing true-as if my Vitiello blood had finally rendered me unstable.

He thought I was unstable.

He held the woman who was actively plotting our destruction, and he looked at me with disgust.

"Apologize," Dante said.

I stared at him. "What?"

"Apologize to Sofia," he commanded. "Now."

I looked at Sofia. She was burying her face in Dante's chest, pretending to sob.

But I heard her silence loud and clear.

Say it. Bow down to me. You lose.

I looked back at Dante. My husband. The man I had saved from a bullet two months ago. The man I had tried to build a life with.

"No," I said.

Dante stepped forward, releasing Sofia.

"Elena-"

"I would rather die," I said.

I turned around.

I didn't run.

I walked back through the gates.

"Elena! Get back here!"

I ignored him.

I walked up the driveway, my back straight, my heart shattering into a million jagged pieces with every step.

Behind me, I heard him comforting her.

It's okay. She's gone. I've got you.

I reached the heavy oak front doors of the Estate. I went inside.

I locked the door. Then I engaged the deadbolt. Then the security chain.

I went upstairs to our bedroom. I locked that door too.

I went to the closet and pulled out the green dress.

I took my scissors.

I cut it.

I sliced through the fabric until it was nothing but ribbons of green silk on the floor.

Then I sat on the bed and waited for him to come and break the door down.

But he didn't come.