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.

Elena POV

The scent of bitter herbs hung heavy in the air of the master bedroom, an acrid, botanical fog that refused to lift.

It was a pungent, earthy smell that clung to the heavy velvet curtains and seeped into my hair, a stark contrast to the sterile, expensive fragrance of white lilies that usually permeated the rest of the estate.

I was drinking the last dregs of the fertility tonic my grandmother used to swear by, a dark viscous sludge meant to protect the life I was trying to cultivate inside me.

The door clicked open.

I didn't flinch. I just set the cup down on the nightstand with a deliberate calmness.

Luca stood in the doorway.

He shouldn't be here. It was Friday. Fridays were for the club, for business, for Sofia.

"You smell like an apothecary," he said, walking into the room.

He looked worn down. The top button of his shirt was undone, his tie hanging loose like a noose around his neck.

"It's for my health," I said, wiping a stray drop from my mouth.

He walked over to the bed, looming over me. He studied my face, searching for something-a crack, a flinch, a sign of weakness.

"Sofia asked me to stay with her tonight," he said.

"And yet, here you are."

"I told her no."

He said it like he expected a round of applause. Like he had conquered a nation just by sleeping in his own bed instead of a mistress's sheets.

"Okay," I said.

He frowned. My lack of reaction bothered him; it always did. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object wrapped in velvet.

He tossed it onto the duvet.

"I found this in the storage unit at the old house. I was going to throw it out, but I remembered you like this junk."

I reached for it.

My fingers trembled violently as I unwrapped the fabric.

It was a small, abstract sculpture of a bird taking flight, carved from dark walnut wood.

The wing was chipped.

I ran my thumb over the curve of the wood. I knew every groove. I knew the exact moment the chisel had slipped and scarred the base.

Dante made this.

He had carved it during our second year of university, sitting on the grass while I read poetry to him.

"It's ugly," Luca said, watching me closely. "But you have weird taste."

"Thank you," I whispered.

I clutched it to my chest, pressing the hard edges against my heart.

Luca's expression softened, just a fraction. A dangerous, arrogant softness.

"You're easy to please tonight," he said. "Is that all it takes? A piece of wood?"

He sat on the edge of the bed.

"I see the way you look at me, Elena. You play cold, but you keep my things. You drink that sludge to make yourself strong for me."

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my neck.

"You're obsessed."

I didn't correct him. I couldn't.

I just held the bird tighter, letting the wood dig into my skin until it hurt.

"Go to sleep, Luca," I said.

He smirked, satisfied with his conquest, and went to the bathroom.

Hours later, the house was silent.

I slipped out of bed.

I went downstairs to the kitchen, the marble floor cold against my bare feet.

I pulled a small cake out of the back of the fridge. It was a simple vanilla sponge with white frosting.

I stuck two candles in the top. Two and six.

Twenty-six.

Dante would have been twenty-six today.

I didn't light them. I just sat in the dark, staring at the wax numbers, letting the grief wash over me like a cold, suffocating tide.

"What are you doing?"

The light flicked on, blindingly bright.

I jumped, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Luca was standing by the fridge, holding a bottle of water. He was shirtless, his chest defined and scarred.

He looked at the cake. He looked at the candles.

He looked at the date on the calendar on the wall.

"It's my birthday," he said slowly.

Technically, yes. They were twins.

"I thought you forgot," he said, walking closer. His voice was thick with sleep and surprise. "Sofia didn't even remember. She just wanted a diamond bracelet."

He looked at the pathetic little cake sitting on the granite island.

"You sat up alone to celebrate me?"

He picked up my phone, which was lying face up on the counter.

I tried to grab it, but he was faster.

He swiped the screen. The gallery was open.

Hundreds of photos.

Photos of a man laughing. Photos of a man sleeping. Photos of a man carving wood.

"Jesus, Elena," he muttered, scrolling. "You have thousands of pictures of me."

They were all Dante. Every single one.

But to him, looking into the mirror of his own face, he only saw himself. He didn't see the gentleness in the eyes, the softness of the smile that he had never once worn.

"I..." I couldn't speak.

"You're terrifying," he said, but there was no bite in it. His ego was preening. He was basking in the glow of a devotion that wasn't his.

He put the phone down and leaned over the counter.

"Light them."

"What?"

"The candles. Light them. Sing."

My hands shook as I struck the match.

The flame flared, illuminating his face.

For a second, in the flickering orange light, the hardness in his eyes seemed to soften. For a second, he looked like Dante.

I opened my mouth.

"Happy birthday to you," I sang softly.

I looked right at him, but I wasn't seeing him. I was seeing the ghost standing behind him.

"Happy birthday, dear..."

I couldn't say the name. The name died in my throat.

"Happy birthday to you."

Luca blew out the candles. Smoke curled into the air between us.

"Make a wish," he commanded.

I already had.

I wished for him to rot, and for me to be free.

"I wish for the future," I said.

Luca smiled. He cut a slice of cake and ate it with his fingers.

"The future," he agreed. "With me."

He had no idea he was consuming a dead man's offering.