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.

The relentless bass in the VIP section hammered against my bruised ribs, mocking the rhythm of my own pulse.

It was a so-called "Celebration" party.

Sofia had convinced Luca that a festivity was in order-specifically, to mark her "recovery" from the trauma of... witnessing me fall down the stairs.

The irony was thick enough to choke on.

I remained wedged in the corner of the plush leather booth, nursing a glass of ice water that I prayed passed for vodka.

Luca sat in the center, holding court.

His soldiers surrounded him, laughing too loudly at his jokes, lighting his cigars with trembling deference.

Sofia perched on his lap, whispering in his ear, draping herself over him to mark her territory for everyone to see.

"Let's play a game!" Sofia announced, clapping her hands sharply. "Truth or Dare!"

The soldiers cheered. They were already deep in their cups.

"I'll start," Sofia said, her eyes gleaming with a toxic sweetness. "Elena."

The room went instantly quiet.

"Truth or Dare?"

"Truth," I said. I wasn't going to dance for her.

"Boring," she sighed, feigning disappointment. "Okay. Truth."

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried clearly over the music.

"Everyone knows you chased Luca for years. You bought your way into this marriage. But tell us..."

She paused for dramatic effect, letting the question hang.

"Is the man you truly love in this room right now?"

Luca stopped drinking.

He set his glass down with a deliberate clink.

He looked at me.

His arrogance filled the booth. He expected me to say yes. He expected me to confess an undying, pathetic devotion to him in front of his men, validating his cruelty.

He wanted to see me bleed.

I looked around the room.

I saw the soldiers. I saw the sycophants. I saw the monster on the throne.

My mind drifted to the wind-swept cemetery on the hill.

To the worn photo hidden deep in my purse.

I met Luca's gaze.

"No."

The word hung in the air, heavier than the cigar smoke.

One syllable.

Absolute devastation.

The silence was deafening.

A soldier coughed awkwardly, shifting in his seat.

Luca's face didn't change, but his eyes... his eyes turned into shards of ice.

"You're drunk," he said, his voice low and laced with menace.

"I'm drinking water, Luca," I replied, calmly lifting my glass.

"Then you're lying."

"It's Truth or Dare. I chose Truth."

Sofia laughed, but it sounded brittle. "Oh, honey, don't be embarrassed. We all know you worship him."

"Next person," Luca barked, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and pouring a glass that was half full.

He downed it in one swallow.

The game continued, but the air had shifted.

Luca was angry. Not the explosive anger of the stairs, but a brooding, dark storm brewing beneath the surface.

He started losing on purpose.

"Dare," he growled when it was his turn.

"Show us your gallery!" a brave soldier shouted, trying to break the tension. "Last photo taken!"

It was a standard penalty.

Luca threw his phone on the table. "Unlock it."

Sofia grabbed it, beaming. "It's probably a picture of me."

She unlocked it and projected it onto the screen on the wall.

It was a shrine to Sofia.

Sofia sleeping. Sofia eating. Sofia trying on shoes.

The men cheered, relieved. "The Don is in love!"

Sofia preened, kissing Luca's cheek. "See? He's obsessed with me."

Luca didn't smile.

He was staring at me.

He was trying to find a crack in my mask. He wanted to see jealousy. He wanted to see pain.

He saw nothing.

I regarded the slideshow of his mistress with the detached disinterest one might reserve for peeling paint.

"It's getting late," I said, checking Dante's watch on my wrist. "I'm going home."

"Sit down," Luca ordered.

"No."

I stood up.

"I said sit down, Elena!" He slammed his hand on the table, making the glasses jump.

"And I said no."

I grabbed my purse.

"Enjoy your night, Luca. You two deserve each other."

I walked out of the VIP room.

I felt his eyes burning a hole in my back.

Let him burn.

I had a flight to catch in three days.

And when I left, I was taking the only part of him that had ever mattered-the part that belonged to Dante-with me.