The front door slammed with enough force to vibrate through the floorboards and rattle the crystal chandelier in the foyer.

He was home.

I smelled him before I saw him-a volatile cocktail of gunpowder, expensive scotch, and the cloying, floral scent of Sofia's perfume.

Bile rose in my throat, but I forced it down, smoothing the front of my silk dress.

Luca strode into the living room, tearing off his jacket and discarding it onto a chair.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the tattoos that crept up his neck-ink that marked him as a killer, a leader, a king.

He looked exactly like Dante-a cruel joke of the universe.

Every time I looked at him, my heart leaped, only to crash and burn when I saw the cold, dead look in his eyes.

"Where is it?" he demanded, not even sparing me a glance.

"Where is what, Luca?"

"The soup. The herbal blend your grandmother used to make. Sofia is feeling faint. She needs it."

I stood perfectly still.

He wanted me, his wife, to cook for his mistress.

It was a test, a way to see how far I would bend before I broke.

He thought I was obsessed with him. He thought my silence was submission, my presence was devotion. He had no idea I was just biding my time.

"I'm not a maid, Luca," I said softly.

He stopped mid-stride and turned to me.

His eyes were dark, bottomless pits of aggression.

He walked over to me, towering over my frame, using his size to intimidate.

"You are whatever I say you are, Elena. You forced this marriage. You wanted the title of Mrs. Falcone. Now act like it."

He grabbed my chin, tilting my face up. His fingers were rough.

"Make the soup."

My gaze dropped from his eyes to his wrist.

There, glinting under the hallway lights, was a vintage Patek Philippe watch. Leather strap. Gold face.

Dante's watch.

The one I gave him for his twenty-first birthday.

Luca had taken it from Dante's body at the morgue, and now he wore it like a trophy.

"I'll make it," I said, my voice steady.

Luca smirked, releasing my chin. "Good girl."

"On one condition."

His smirk faltered. "You're bargaining with me?"

"I want the watch."

Luca looked down at his wrist, then back at me, a furrow of confusion knitting his brows.

"This old thing? It's out of style. I can buy you a diamond-encrusted Rolex tomorrow."

"I don't want a Rolex," I said. "I want that one."

He laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You're pathetic, Elena. You want it because it's on my skin? Because it smells like me?"

He began to unbuckle it.

"You love me that much? You want my scraps?"

"Yes," I lied, the words tasting like ash. "I love you that much."

He tossed the watch at me.

I caught it.

The leather was warm from his body heat.

I clutched it tight, my nails digging into the strap, suppressing the urge to bring it to my nose and inhale, hoping a trace of Dante remained beneath the scent of his brother.

"Soup. Now," Luca ordered, checking his phone.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of his Bugatti, a thermos of soup on my lap.

He drove like he lived-fast, reckless, aggressive.

"Rossi called me again," Luca said, swerving through traffic. "Said you seemed... different today."

"I'm just tired, Luca."

"Don't be. Sofia needs you to be pleasant. She's sensitive."

We arrived at the private hospital wing the Falcone family owned.

Sofia was lounging in a VIP suite that looked more like a five-star hotel room than a medical facility.

She was wearing a silk robe, her makeup flawless for someone who was supposedly "faint."

When we walked in, her eyes snapped to me, then to Luca.

"Luca!" She held out her arms.

He went to her immediately, sitting on the edge of the bed, kissing her forehead with a tenderness he had never, not once, shown me.

"I brought it," he said gently.

He turned to me and snapped his fingers. "Give it here."

I walked forward and handed him the thermos.

"Pour it," Sofia said, looking at me with a smirk. "My hands are too weak."

Luca looked at me.

I unscrewed the lid and poured the steaming liquid into a bowl. The smell of ginger and herbs filled the room.

"It's hot," I warned.

"I'll feed her," Luca said, taking the bowl from my hands without a word of thanks.

He turned his back to me, spooning the soup, blowing on it gently before bringing it to Sofia's lips.

She opened her mouth, her eyes locking with mine over his shoulder.

She smiled.

A victorious, predatory smile.

She thought she had won the King.

I touched the watch in my pocket, feeling the cool metal against my palm.

I didn't care about the King.

I had the crown jewels.

Turning on my heel, I walked out of the room, leaving my husband to play nursemaid to a rat, while I carried his brother's memory out the door.

The University Gala was an annual torture I usually engaged in strictly for appearances, a mandatory penance for the sake of the Falcone family image.

This had always been Dante's domain.

He had been the scholar, the diplomat who charmed donors and commissioned libraries, while Luca was the blunt instrument who broke kneecaps in the alleyways.

I wore black.

A floor-length velvet gown hugged my curves, a dark armor designed to conceal the invisible fractures in my spirit.

I stood near the champagne tower, a silent observer watching the elite of Chicago mingle like sharks in a tank.

"Elena."

I stiffened.

Luca appeared at my side, his hand settling heavily on the small of my back.

It wasn't a caress; it was a brand. A claim of ownership.

On his other arm hung Sofia.

She was wearing red. A bright, screaming scarlet that clashed violently with the sombre elegance of the evening.

"Look who decided to come out of her cave," Sofia cooed, sipping her champagne with a predatory glint in her eyes. "I told Luca you probably wouldn't fit into your dress anymore. You've been looking... thick lately."

I instinctively moved my hand to my stomach, then stopped, forcing my fingers to unclench.

"I'm fine, Sofia. Just admiring the architecture."

"Boring," she yawned. "Dante used to love this stuff, didn't he? All these dusty books and old buildings."

Luca's hand on my back tightened painfully, his fingers digging into my flesh.

He hated hearing Dante's name.

He hated the constant reminder that he was the spare, the brute, the second choice for everyone-including his own father.

"Let's eat," Luca gritted out.

Dinner was a farce.

Luca spent the entire meal feeding Sofia grapes from his plate, a grotesque display of affection that blatantly ignored the senators and judges attempting to curry his favor.

I sat in silence, dissecting my steak into tiny, precise squares.

"Excuse me," I said, standing up abruptly. "Restroom."

I needed to breathe.

The restroom was empty, a sanctuary of cold marble and gold leaf.

I splashed freezing water on my face, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of my heart.

The door opened.

Sofia walked in.

She didn't use the toilet. Instead, she leaned against the sinks, crossing her arms with a smirk.

"You know he doesn't love you, right?" her voice echoed off the pristine tiles.

"I know," I said, reaching for a paper towel.

"He keeps you around because of the name. Vitiello money launders better than anyone. But in bed? He calls for me."

"Congratulations," I said, moving toward the exit. "You can have him."

She stepped sideways, blocking my path.

"I don't just want him, Elena. I want the ring. I want the house. I want you erased."

"Then convince him to sign the papers."

"Oh, I have a better way."

She pulled out her phone, tapping it against her chin. "I've been leaking info to the Russians. Just small things. Enough to make Luca paranoid. Soon, I'll plant the evidence on you."

My blood ran cold.

"You're betraying the family? That's a death sentence, Sofia."

"Only if I get caught. And Luca? He's so wrapped around my finger he can't see straight."

She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound.

Then, her eyes flicked to the door.

Without warning, she threw herself backward.

"Ahhh!" she screamed, flailing her arms theatrically before crashing onto the floor. "Elena, no!"

The door burst open.

Luca.

He took in the scene instantly, his judgment clouded by instinct.

Sofia lay on the floor, sobbing, clutching her cheek. Me, standing over her, frozen.

"She hit me!" Sofia wailed. "She said I was a whore and slapped me!"

Luca's face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.

He didn't ask what happened.

He didn't look at me for an explanation.

He crossed the room in two predatory strides and shoved me.

"Get away from her!" he roared.

The force was overwhelming.

He didn't mean to push me that hard-or perhaps, in his blind rage, he did.

I stumbled back.

My heels caught on the edge of the plush rug.

I lost my balance.

Behind me gaped the small flight of marble stairs leading down to the lounge area.

I flailed, grasping at the empty air.

"Luca-"

I fell.

My body struck the hard stone steps.

One. Two. Three.

Agony exploded in my side. My head cracked against the iron railing with a sickening thud.

I landed at the bottom in a crumpled heap of black velvet.

The world spun violently.

A sharp, cramping pain seized my abdomen, tearing through me like a hot knife.

"No," I whispered, clutching my stomach. "No, no, no."

Luca stood at the top of the stairs, helping Sofia up.

He glanced down at me.

His eyes were cold, void of any recognition.

"Consider that a lesson," he spat. "Touch her again, and I'll kill you."

He turned and walked away, cradling Sofia as if she were made of spun glass.

He left me there.

Bleeding.

Alone.

I reached for my purse, my fingers trembling so violently I could barely unzip it.

I didn't call Luca.

I didn't call my family.

I dialed emergency services.

"Please," I whispered into the phone, darkness creeping into the edges of my vision. "Save my baby."

The air in the hospital room was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the metallic tang of fear.

I woke up with a throbbing headache and a terrifying hollowness in my gut.

"Mrs. Falcone?"

A doctor in a white coat stood over me. He looked nervous. Everyone who worked for the Family always looked like they were waiting for a bullet.

"The baby?" I rasped, my hand flying to my stomach.

"The fetus is intact," he whispered, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "It was a close call. You have severe bruising on your ribs and a concussion, but the pregnancy holds."

I let out a sob that I quickly stifled with my hand.

"Thank God. Thank Dante."

"Mrs. Falcone... does the father know? I need to update the chart."

"The father is dead," I said flatly.

The doctor blinked, his pen hovering over the clipboard. "But... Don Falcone is in the hallway."

"He is not the father," I said, my voice hardening into steel. "And you will not tell him. If you value your life, you will write 'abdominal trauma' on that chart and nothing else. Do you understand?"

The doctor paled. He nodded rapidly.

The door swung open.

Luca walked in.

He looked... annoyed.

Not worried. Annoyed.

"You're awake," he said, standing at the foot of the bed.

He didn't ask how I was.

"Who died?" he asked abruptly. "I heard you talking about someone dead."

"My patience," I said, staring at the ceiling.

He scoffed. "Stop with the drama. It was a few stairs. You're lucky you didn't break anything."

"I have a concussion, Luca."

"Sofia has a panic attack because of you. She's been crying all night."

I slowly turned my head to look at him.

He truly believed it.

He was so blinded by his need to be the savior, the white knight in a blood-stained suit, that he couldn't see the viper coiled in his sheets.

"I didn't touch her," I said.

"Don't lie to me. I saw her on the floor."

"You saw what she wanted you to see. There are cameras in the hallway. Check them."

"I don't need cameras. I trust her."

Of course he did.

"Get up," he said. "We're leaving."

"I just woke up, Luca."

"Sofia is waiting in the car. She wants an apology."

I froze.

"You want me... to apologize to her?"

"You assaulted her. It's the least you can do to keep the peace. I don't want war in my own house."

I looked at him.

Really looked at him.

He was a giant of a man, powerful, lethal, feared by millions.

But in this moment, he was small.

"Fine," I said.

The fight left me.

It wasn't surrender. It was a tactical retreat.

I needed to get out of here. I needed to protect the life inside me. Stress was poison.

I swung my legs over the bed, wincing sharp breath as the pain in my ribs flared hot.

I dressed in silence.

We walked to the car.

Sofia was in the back seat, checking her nails.

When I opened the door, she looked up with a pout.

"Luca, is she going to hit me again?"

"No," Luca said, getting into the driver's seat. "She's going to apologize."

He looked at me in the rearview mirror.

I met Sofia's eyes.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "I'm sorry you felt the need to throw yourself on the floor to get attention. It must be exhausting being you."

"Luca!" Sofia shrieked.

"Elena!" Luca warned.

"I apologized," I said, leaning back and closing my eyes. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. Are we done?"

The car was silent.

Luca started the engine, revving it louder than necessary.

He was unsettled.

He expected me to fight. He expected me to cry, to beg for his belief.

My indifference was a language he didn't speak.

He didn't know that I had already checked out.

I wasn't his wife anymore.

I was just a passenger, waiting for my stop.