The cleaner was already inside the penthouse when I returned.

He was a mountain of a man, neckless and dead-eyed, standing in the center of the living room I had so carefully curated. He was currently draping heavy plastic sheets over the pristine white sofas.

I knew exactly what that meant.

Plastic sheets were not for painting. They were for blood.

"Get out," I said, though my voice lacked the authority it should have had.

He didn't even look at me. "Mr. Moretti said you are being... relocated. The new mistress is moving in tonight."

Relocated.

I walked past him, my heels clicking on the marble floor like a countdown. The stone suddenly felt like ice beneath my feet. I needed to leave, but not without insurance.

I needed the Ledger. It was hidden in the false bottom of my jewelry box.

I reached the bedroom door, but the handle refused to turn. Locked.

"Open it!" I demanded, banging my fist against the wood.

The sound of the front door opening behind me made me freeze.

I turned to see Sofia Falcone strutting in, followed closely by Dante. She was holding a flute of champagne, surveying the apartment like she was inspecting a cheap hotel room she wasn't impressed with.

"A bit tacky, isn't it?" she said, gesturing vaguely to my art on the walls. "All this sentimental garbage."

Dante closed the door behind him. The lock clicked with a finality that made my stomach drop.

"Elena," he said. His voice was calm. Transactional. "You are making a scene."

"A scene?" I laughed, the sound tearing out of my throat, hysterical and broken. "You used me as a human shield for eight years, Dante. You let me believe we were a family."

"We were never a family," he replied, adjusting his cuffs. "You were an employee. You were compensated well in clothes and food."

Sofia walked over to the mantle. She picked up a framed photo of my mother-the only photo I had of her.

"Is this the whore who birthed you?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Don't touch that," I warned, my voice trembling.

Sofia smiled cruelly and dropped the frame. The glass shattered with a sharp crunch. She stepped on the photo with her stiletto heel, grinding my mother's face into the dust.

I lunged at her.

It was instinct. Pure, blinding rage.

But before I could reach her, a hand grabbed my hair and yanked me back.

Dante shoved me.

I flew backward, my hip slamming into the sharp corner of the marble coffee table. Pain exploded in my side, radiating down my leg like fire. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air.

Dante stood over me, impassive.

"You do not touch a Made Woman, Elena," he said coldly. "That is a death sentence."

Sofia pouted, clinging to Dante's arm like a vine. "She attacked me, baby. She's dangerous. She needs to learn her place."

Dante looked down at me. There was no love in his eyes. Only annoyance.

"The Reflection Room," he ordered the cleaner.

"No," I begged, trying to crawl away, panic seizing my chest. "Not the room."

The Reflection Room was a windowless closet in the hallway. It was soundproof. It was where Dante put people when he wanted them to break.

The cleaner grabbed my arms and dragged me across the floor. I screamed, kicking and fighting, but he was too strong. He was immovable.

Dante turned his back to me, pouring Sofia another drink.

I was thrown into the darkness.

The door slammed shut.

The lock engaged.

I was alone with the silence and the throbbing pain in my hip.

I curled into a ball on the cold floor, wrapping my arms around myself to keep from falling apart.

I realized then that the plastic sheets in the living room weren't for me. Not yet.

They were keeping me alive for something worse.

I closed my eyes and prayed that Valerio Santoro was as ruthless as the stories said.

Because I didn't need a savior.

I needed a monster to kill a monster.

For two days, they left me to rot in the dark.

No food. No water. Just the sound of my own shallow breathing and the memories of Dante's betrayal playing on a sickening loop in my mind.

When the door finally opened, the light seared my retinas, blinding me.

Dante stood there, silhouetted against the harsh hallway lights. He looked impeccable in a charcoal suit, every inch the gentleman, as if he hadn't just tortured the woman he slept next to for nearly a decade.

"Stand up," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "We have a charity auction to attend."

I tried to obey, but my legs were trembling from dehydration. I stumbled forward. He didn't reach out to catch me.

"You look pathetic," he noted, scanning my disheveled form with cold indifference. "Fix your face. The press expects the happy couple."

He threw a garment bag at me. "Long sleeves. High neck. To hide the bruises."

"Why?" I rasped, my throat feeling like sandpaper. "Why keep up the act if Sofia is here?"

"Because the transition takes time, Elena. And until the ring is on Sofia's finger, you are still the target."

I was still the bait.

One hour later, I was standing in a gilded ballroom at the Plaza Hotel, smiling until my cheeks ached. Dante's hand rested on the small of my back, his grip firm, possessive. It wasn't comfort. It was a shackle.

Sofia was there, too. She was watching from a private balcony, sipping wine, waiting for her turn to descend.

The auctioneer announced the next item.

"Lot 45. A vintage silver locket, early twentieth century."

My heart stopped dead in my chest.

It was my mother's locket. The one I had pawned three years ago to pay off a gambling debt for Dante's younger brother-a debt Dante never knew about. I had been trying to buy it back for months.

"Dante," I whispered, tugging faintly on his sleeve. "Please. That represents my mother. It is the only thing I have left of her."

He looked at me, swirling his champagne, boredom etched into his features.

"You have plenty of jewelry, Elena. Don't be greedy."

The bidding started.

"Five thousand. Ten thousand."

"Please," I begged, desperation clawing at my throat. "I will never ask for anything again. Just this."

Dante sighed, as if granting a tiresome child a favor. He raised his paddle. "Fifty thousand."

Relief washed over me so violently I almost collapsed. He still cared. Somewhere, deep down, he still cared.

"Going once, going twice..."

"One hundred thousand," a voice rang out from the mezzanine.

It was Sofia.

She was smiling down at us, holding her paddle high, like a queen presiding over an execution.

Dante looked up at her. He didn't counter-bid. He lowered his paddle.

"Sold to the lady in red!"

"No," I gasped. "Dante, please. Outbid her. You have millions."

He looked at me with cold, dead eyes. "She is the future Mrs. Moretti, Elena. I do not bid against family."

I watched, paralyzed, as a staff member brought the locket up to Sofia. She took it, dangling it by its delicate chain over the edge of the balcony.

She caught my eye. She mouthed the word: "Oops."

She opened her fingers.

The locket fell two stories. It hit the marble floor of the ballroom with a sickening crack. The silver buckled. The hinge snapped.

I fell to my knees, scrambling to gather the ruined pieces. The guests gasped, whispering behind their hands.

Dante grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my bruised flesh.

"Stand up," he hissed. "You are embarrassing me."

I looked at the broken metal in my hands. It was sharp. It cut my palm.

Blood welled up, mixing with the silver dust.

I looked up at Dante. I looked at the man I had once worshipped.

And for the first time, I didn't see a Prince.

I saw a corpse.

Because the man I loved was dead. And the thing standing in front of me was just a devil in a designer suit.

The ride back to the penthouse was oppressively silent.

I cradled my injured hand against the silk of my dress, trying to stem the flow of blood. Dante tapped incessantly on his phone, ignoring my existence as if I were nothing more than a stain on the upholstery.

When we entered the apartment, the smell hit me first.

It was savory. Rich. It smelled like home-like a heavy, slow-cooked stew.

My stomach rumbled, betraying me. I hadn't eaten in three days.

Sofia was sitting at the dining table. She looked delighted, her face flushed with a manic sort of pride.

"You're just in time for dinner," she chirped. "I made soup."

She gestured to the maids. Before I could react, they grabbed me.

I didn't fight. I was too weak, my limbs heavy with exhaustion. They forced me into a chair. Sofia ladled a thick, brown broth into a bowl and placed it in front of me.

"Eat," she said, her smile widening.

I stared down at the bowl. There was a clump of fur floating in the grease. Three colors. White, orange, black.

Calico.

My blood turned to ice in my veins.

"Sketch?" I whispered, the name choking me.

My cat. The stray I had rescued from the alley behind the art studio. The only living thing that loved me unconditionally.

Sofia smiled, her eyes dancing with madness.

"He was shedding on Dante's suits," she said matter-of-factly. "I solved the problem. And I hate waste."

I gagged, bile rising in my throat. I tried to stand up, to flip the table, to kill her with my bare hands.

Dante walked in from the hallway. He saw the bowl. He saw my face.

He didn't look horrified. He looked annoyed.

"I told you to get rid of the cat, Elena," he said, loosening his tie. "Sofia just... improvised."

"You let her kill him?" I screamed, my voice cracking. "He was innocent!"

"He was an animal," Dante snapped, his patience evaporating. "And you are behaving like one. Eat the soup, or you go back to the Reflection Room."

I grabbed the bowl and threw it.

Hot broth splashed across Sofia's red dress. She shrieked, jumping back.

Dante moved faster than I could track. He backhanded me across the face.

The force of the blow knocked me out of the chair. I tasted copper as my teeth cut into my cheek.

"Clean it up," he ordered, towering over me. "Lick it off the floor if you have to."

He took Sofia's arm. "Come, amore. Let's get you out of this dress."

They walked toward the master bedroom. My bedroom.

I lay on the floor, next to the remains of my best friend, my chest heaving with silent sobs.

My phone vibrated in my bra.

I pulled it out with trembling hands. A text from an unknown number.

Are you ready?

It was Valerio.

I typed back one word: Yes.

I heard the shower turn on in the master bathroom. I heard Sofia giggling. I heard Dante's low rumble of desire.

I stood up. I wiped the blood from my lip.

I walked into Dante's study.

My hands weren't shaking anymore.

I went to the bookshelf. Third row, behind the copy of The Prince. I pressed the hidden latch. The panel slid open with a soft click.

The Blue Ledger.

It contained the offshore account numbers, the bribes to judges, the locations of the bodies. It was the heart of the Moretti empire.

I grabbed it.

From the bedroom, I heard Sofia moan. I heard the bed frame hitting the wall-the bed I had picked out.

Dante shouted her name.

I didn't cry. I didn't feel pain.

I opened the Ledger and pulled out my phone. I started taking pictures.

Every click of the camera was a nail in his coffin.

Moan louder, Sofia, I thought, a cold darkness settling over my soul. Distract him while I burn his kingdom to the ground.