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.

Elena POV

The auction house felt less like a gallery and more like a cathedral of greed.

Crystal chandeliers cascaded from the vaulted ceiling, casting fractured light over a crowd that smelled of old money and quiet desperation.

I sat in the back row, my hands clenched tightly in my lap.

I hadn't come for the Renaissance oils. I hadn't come for the diamond chokers.

I was here for one thing only: Lot 42.

A crystal ball.

Not a mystical trinket found in a fortune teller's tent. It was a solid sphere of pure, flawless quartz.

Dante had commissioned it for me. He had claimed it represented clarity.

"The only thing in this world clear enough to match your mind," he had told me.

It had been looted from his apartment in the chaotic vacuum left by his death.

Now, it sat on a velvet pillow on the stage, mocking me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Lot 42."

My heart squeezed painfully against my ribs.

"Starting bid at fifty thousand."

I raised my paddle. "One hundred thousand."

Heads turned. It was an aggressive jump.

"One hundred and fifty!"

The voice came from the front row.

I froze.

Luca sat there, looking like a king in a bespoke suit, radiating a dark gravitational pull. Next to him, Sofia was whispering in his ear, pointing at the stage.

She didn't want the crystal ball. She likely didn't even know what it was.

She just saw me bid on it.

"Two hundred thousand," I said, my voice betraying none of the tremors in my hands.

Sofia tugged on Luca's sleeve. He raised his paddle without looking back.

"Three hundred."

"Four hundred," I countered.

"Five hundred."

It was a game to them. A cruel, blood sport.

I mentally tallied my bank account on my phone. I had liquidated my personal assets, but I needed cash for the escape. I had a hard ceiling.

"One million," I said.

The collective gasp sucked the air out of the room.

Sofia turned around in her seat. Her eyes met mine, glittering with malice. She said something to Luca.

Luca turned. His eyes were voids-cold and empty.

He didn't see a grieving widow. He saw an opponent to be crushed.

He raised his hand.

"Two million."

The floor dropped out from under me. That was my limit. If I went higher, I couldn't pay the pilot. I couldn't pay for the safe house.

I stared at him, begging silently. Please. It's all I have left of him.

He saw the desperation.

And he mistook it for weakness.

"Three million," Luca drawled. "And the lady in red wants it wrapped immediately."

The gavel banged down.

"Sold to Mr. Falcone for three million dollars."

To my ears, the sound of the gavel was like a bone snapping.

I sat there as the room erupted in polite applause.

I watched the staff package the crystal ball. I watched them hand the velvet box to Luca.

I watched Luca hand it to Sofia.

She held it up to the light, laughing. She tapped her long, acrylic nails against the flawless surface.

It wasn't just a purchase.

It was an erasure.

He had taken the symbol of his brother's love and gifted it to the woman who was helping him dismantle his brother's legacy.

I stood up. My legs felt like lead.

I walked out of the auction hall, the applause ringing in my ears like a funeral dirge.

Elena POV

The sound of shattering glass is distinct. It is high-pitched, violent, and absolute.

I was standing by the valet stand outside the auction house when it happened.

Sofia sauntered out, hanging off Luca's arm. She was tossing the crystal ball in the air, catching it, giggling.

"It's so heavy, Luca. What does it even do? It's just glass."

"Be careful with it," Luca said, distractedly lighting a cigarette.

"Oops."

She opened her hands.

Time seemed to warp and slow down.

I watched the sphere fall. I watched it hit the concrete pavement.

It didn't just crack. It exploded.

Shards of quartz skittered across the sidewalk, glittering under the streetlights like ruined diamonds.

"Oh no," Sofia said, her voice flat and entirely unapologetic. "My hand slipped."

I fell to my knees.

I didn't care about the dress. I didn't care about the people watching.

I crawled onto the pavement, gathering the pieces.

Sharp edges sliced into my palms. Blood welled up, mixing with the dust on the quartz until the stones turned a muddy crimson.

"Elena, get up," Luca hissed, looming over me. "You're embarrassing me."

"It's broken," I whispered, my voice trembling. "It's all broken."

"I'll buy you another one," Luca said, stepping closer. He looked at my bleeding hands with disgust masked as annoyance. "It's just a rock. I'll get you a bigger one tomorrow."

I looked up at him.

Tears blurred my vision, but my hatred was crystalline.

"You can't buy another one," I said. "It was one of a kind."

"Everything has a price, Elena."

"Not this."

I stood up, clutching a handful of sharp shards against my chest. The blood stained the silk of my dress.

"I'm taking a taxi," I said.

"Get in the car," Luca ordered.

"No."

I turned and walked away.

For the next three days, a suffocating silence reigned in the Falcone estate.

I didn't speak to him. I didn't look at him.

I moved through the house like a wraith, packing boxes in my mind.

Luca tried to fix it the only way he knew how.

He came home with boxes. Crystal vases. Diamond necklaces. A massive, tacky glass sculpture of a lion.

"Here," he said, kicking the boxes toward me in the living room. "Replacements. Better quality than that junk you cried over."

I didn't even look up from my book.

"You're being a brat," he snapped. "I'm trying here."

"You're trying to buy forgiveness, Luca. I'm not selling."

He stormed out.

That night, he got drunk. His soldiers called me from a bar downtown.

"Mrs. Falcone, the Don is... indisposed. He's asking for you."

"Call Sofia," I said.

"But... he's asking for his wife."

"Then tell him his wife is dead."

I hung up.

I went upstairs and pulled my suitcase out from under the bed.

I packed efficiently. No clothes. No jewelry.

Just the wooden bird. The watch. The bloody shards of quartz wrapped in a silk scarf.

The door banged open downstairs.

Luca was home.

He stumbled into the room, smelling of whiskey and rage. He saw the suitcase.

The air left the room.

"Where do you think you're going?"

He crossed the room in a blur of motion, grabbing my wrist. His grip was bruising.

"Answer me!"

"Vacation," I lied, my voice unnaturally calm. "I'm going to Paris for a week. To shop. To get away from you."

He searched my face, looking for the lie.

"You're leaving me."

"I'm going shopping, Luca. Let go."

His phone rang.

He ignored it.

"You don't take a suitcase for a shopping trip."

"I do when I plan to buy a new wardrobe."

The phone rang again. And again.

He glanced at the screen. Sofia.

"Answer it," I said. "She probably broke a nail."

He looked at me, then at the phone. The alcohol made him slow, confused.

He answered.

"Luca! Help me!" Sofia screamed through the speaker. "There's someone outside my apartment! I saw a gun! Please!"

Luca dropped my wrist.

The suspicion in his eyes vanished, replaced by the instinct to protect what he believed was his.

"I'm coming," he said to the phone.

He looked at me one last time.

"We talk when I get back. You don't leave this house."

He ran out.

I listened to the roar of his engine fading into the distance.

I picked up my suitcase.

"Goodbye, Luca."