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.

The train station at 1 AM felt less like a departure point and more like a graveyard of dreams.

The air reeked of diesel fumes and stale coffee.

I stood on Platform 9, my coat clutched tight against the biting wind.

I had one bag.

Cash.

No cards.

No tracks.

"You look like you're waiting for a funeral train."

I turned sharply.

Gianna was standing there.

She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a thick scarf that covered half her face, but I recognized the fire in her stance.

"Gianna," I breathed.

"Rocco hit me," she said simply.

She pulled down the scarf.

My breath hitched. Her jaw was mottled with deep purple bruises.

"He said I was too loud. Too opinionated. He wanted a mute."

Rage simmered in my veins, hot and familiar.

"He will pay," I vowed.

"He's already paying," she said, a wicked grin touching her bruised lips. "I drained the safe before I left."

"Is anyone else coming?" I asked.

"Me."

A voice drifted from the shadows behind a concrete pillar.

Aria.

She looked like a ghost, her skin translucent under the harsh station lights.

She was shaking, her hands clutching a small duffel bag so hard her knuckles were white.

"Luca?" I asked gently.

"He didn't hit me," Aria whispered, her voice barely audible. "He just... erased me. I haven't spoken a word in three weeks that he actually heard."

She looked at us, her eyes wide with raw terror.

"Are we really doing this?" she asked. "They will kill us."

"They have to find us first," I said.

"Where are we going?" Gianna asked.

"Las Vegas," I said.

"Why Vegas?"

"Because it's neutral territory," I explained. "The Outfit has no jurisdiction there. And because it's loud. It's bright. It's everything they hate."

The train whistle blew.

It was a mournful, lonely scream in the night.

"This is a one-way ticket," I said, meeting their eyes. "Once we get on that train, we are dead to them. We are Omertà breakers."

Gianna spit on the tracks.

"Good."

We boarded the train.

We found a compartment and locked the door with a decisive click.

As the train lurched forward, leaving the city that had been our prison, I felt a strange sensation expand in my chest.

It wasn't fear.

It was air.

For the first time in my life, I could finally breathe.

Dante Cavallaro POV

The silence in the Estate was deafening.

I kicked the front door open.

"Elena!"

No answer.

The lights were off.

The air was stale.

It felt like a tomb.

I ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, panic tightening my chest.

My heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

She's just pouting. She's hiding in the guest room.

I threw open the bedroom door.

Empty.

The bed was made.

Perfectly, militarily made.

I went to the closet.

Her clothes were there.

Except for the white suit.

And the black coat.

I went to the bathroom.

Her toothbrush was gone.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat.

I ran back downstairs to the kitchen.

Nothing.

I went to the study.

Nothing.

I stood in the center of the living room, spinning around, looking for a note, a sign, anything.

Then I saw it.

On the small entry table.

The keys to the house.

And the keys to her car.

I grabbed them.

My hands were shaking.

My phone buzzed.

Rocco.

"Boss," he said, his voice sounding strangled. "Gianna is gone. The safe is empty."

My blood ran cold.

"Check the tracking on her car," I barked.

"I did," Rocco said. "It's at the train station."

"Luca?" I asked, dread pooling in my stomach.

"Aria is missing too," Rocco said. "She left her wedding ring in the ashtray."

Three wives.

Gone.

In the same night.

This wasn't a tantrum.

This was a mutiny.

I looked at the keys in my hand.

Elena hadn't just left me.

She had led a revolution.

I squeezed the keys until the metal bit into my palm.

"Find them," I whispered, my voice lethal.

"Find them now."

Dante Cavallaro POV

Twenty-four hours had passed without sleep.

I sat in my study, a glass of whiskey resting untouched on the mahogany desk.

The house felt massive around me, hostile in its silence.

Every shifting shadow looked like her.

Every groan of the floorboards sounded like the phantom echo of her footsteps.

The door clicked open.

I looked up, expecting Vitale with news from the trackers.

It was Sofia.

She strolled in with an air of possession that made my stomach turn.

She was wearing a silk robe.

My wife's robe.

Red rage flooded my vision, tinting the world in violence.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice a low, vibrating growl.

"I heard she left," Sofia said softly.

She rounded the desk, invading my personal space.

She placed a hand on my shoulder.

Her fingers felt like spiders crawling over my skin.

"I'm sorry, Dante. But maybe... maybe it's for the best."

"For the best?" I repeated, the words tasting like ash.

"She wasn't right for you," Sofia cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "She was too hard. Too cold. You need someone who appreciates you. Someone who needs you."

She leaned down.

The scent of vanilla was suffocating, cloying and artificial.

It made me want to gag.

"I'm here, Dante," she whispered against my ear. "I've always been here."

She moved to settle onto my lap.

I stood up so abruptly that my chair flew backward, crashing against the wall with a deafening crack.

Sofia stumbled, barely catching herself on the edge of the desk.

"Dante?"

"Take that robe off," I commanded.

Sofia smiled tentatively, her fingers drifting to the belt. "Of course, I-"

"Take it off and put on your own clothes," I roared, the sound tearing from my chest. "And get out of my house."

Sofia froze.

Her face crumbled, the mask of seduction slipping.

"What? But... she's gone! We can finally-"

"There is no 'we'!" I shouted. "There never was!"

"But you chose me!" she screamed, her voice shrill. "You defended me! You bought me the penthouse!"

"I bought the penthouse for Elena!" I slammed my fist onto the desk, rattling the glass of whiskey. "I used your name to keep it off the books so my enemies wouldn't blow it up with her inside! You were a signature! A pen! Nothing more!"

Sofia recoiled as if I had struck her physically.

Her eyes narrowed, hurt morphing into venom.

"And the dress?" she hissed. "You let me wear it."

I narrowed my eyes, the non-sequitur catching me off guard.

"What?"

"The green dress," she said, malice leaking into her voice, desperate to claim a victory. "I tried it on. I rubbed my perfume on it. I told her I had worn it. That's why she slapped me."

The world stopped spinning.

She told me she wore the dress. She told me-

Elena's desperate words from that night echoed in my mind, haunting me.

I hadn't listened.

I had looked at the crocodile tears on Sofia's face and ignored the burning truth in Elena's eyes.

I walked around the desk.

I towered over Sofia, letting my shadow consume her.

She shrank back, real, primal fear finally entering her eyes.

"You provoked her," I said, the realization settling like lead in my gut. "You staged the accident in the kitchen. You poisoned my marriage."

"I did it for us!" Sofia cried.

"Get out," I said. My voice was deadly quiet, far scarier than the shouting.

"Dante, please-"

"If you are not out of this house in two minutes," I warned, "I will forget the debt I owe your dead husband. And I will treat you like the enemy you are."

Sofia scrambled back, tripping over her own feet.

She turned and ran out of the room.

Moments later, the front door slammed, shaking the house.

I was alone.

Truly alone.

I looked at the empty desk where Elena's resignation letter had lain.

I had chosen honor over love.

And now I had neither.

I pulled out my phone.

I dialed Rocco.

"Did you find them?"

"We got a hit on a credit card," Rocco answered immediately. "A burner account Aria set up years ago. They bought tickets."

"Where?"

"Las Vegas."

I hung up without another word.

I walked to the window and looked out at the dark, sprawling grounds.

Las Vegas.

The city of sin.

She thought she could run.

She thought she could hide in the neon lights.

She was wrong.

I wasn't a husband anymore.

I was a hunter.

And I was coming to claim my prize.