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.

Dante didn't come home that night.

He didn't come home the next night, either.

He remained at the club, barricaded in his office, drowning his "sorrows" in a toxic blend of scotch and violence.

I stayed in the guest room.

I didn't cry.

I was done with tears.

I was planning.

On the third day, I dressed. A white suit.

Sharp. Professional. Armor.

I drove to the club.

The bouncers let me in, though their eyes darted away, nervous and evasive.

They knew.

Everyone knew.

The Capo's wife was falling from grace, and they all had front-row seats.

I walked through the smoky lounge, ignoring the burning stares of the soldiers and the strippers.

I ascended the stairs to the VIP level.

I reached Dante's office door.

It was slightly ajar.

Voices drifted from inside. Low. Tense.

I recognized the gravelly baritone of Consigliere Vitale.

"You look like hell, Dante," Vitale said.

"I feel like hell," Dante grunted.

The sharp clink of glass against glass punctuated the silence.

"This situation with Elena," Vitale said. "It is becoming a distraction. The men are talking."

"Let them talk," Dante snapped.

"They are saying you can't control your house," Vitale pressed. "They are saying Sofia has you on a leash."

"Sofia is a responsibility," Dante said, his voice weary. "Nothing more."

"Is she?" Vitale challenged. "Because you are spending your nights here, while your wife is alone in that fortress."

I held my breath.

I leaned closer to the gap in the door.

This was it.

The moment of truth.

"Elena is difficult," Dante said. "She is cold. She is demanding. She sees enemies where there are none."

He paused, and I could practically hear the unspoken words: I just want peace. Sofia gives me peace. Elena gives me war.

"And Sofia?" Vitale asked. "If you had to choose. The debt of honor, or the vow of marriage?"

There was a long, agonizing silence.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"Sofia has no one," Dante said finally. "Her family is dead because of me. Elena... Elena is a Vitiello. She is made of iron. She will survive anything."

Sofia needs me. Elena doesn't.

He chose her.

Not because he loved her more.

But because he thought I was strong enough to break.

He was punishing me for my strength.

I stepped back from the door.

The pain was so sharp it felt physical, like a knife twisting in my gut.

But then, clarity washed over me, cold and absolute.

He was right.

I was made of iron.

And iron didn't bend.

It struck.

I pushed the door open.

Dante looked up, startled.

He looked terrible. Unshaven, eyes bloodshot, his shirt unbuttoned.

He looked at me, and for a fleeting second, I saw relief.

Then the wall came up.

"Elena," he said, his voice hardening. "We are busy."

"I know," I said. "I heard."

I walked to his desk.

I didn't look at Vitale.

I pulled the envelope from my purse.

Inside was a letter.

Not a legal document.

A resignation.

"What is this?" Dante asked, eyeing the envelope warily.

"You said marriage is a contract," I said. "A duty."

I placed the envelope on the mahogany desk.

"I am in breach of contract."

Dante frowned.

"Stop playing games, Elena. Go home."

"I am," I said.

I reached for my left hand.

I pulled off the diamond ring.

It was heavy.

It carried the weight of a thousand lies.

I dropped it on top of the envelope.

It made a sharp clack sound that echoed in the quiet room.

Dante stared at the ring.

His face went pale.

No. She wouldn't.

"Goodbye, Dante," I said.

I turned and walked out.

"Elena!" he shouted.

I didn't stop.

I walked down the stairs, through the lounge, and out into the blinding sunlight.

I got into my car.

I didn't go to the Estate.

I drove to the train station.

My phone started ringing.

Dante.

I threw the phone out the window onto the highway.

I watched in the rearview mirror as it shattered against the asphalt.

Silence.

Finally.