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.

I memorized the codes. I photographed the pages. I returned the Ledger exactly where it belonged, sliding it back into the dust-free outline on the shelf.

In my own home, I had become a ghost.

Two days later, Dante hosted the engagement party.

The venue was the estate in the Hamptons-a sprawling display of excess where the lawn was manicured to within an inch of its life, the pool shimmered a deceptive turquoise, and the champagne flowed like water.

And in a twist of cruel irony, I was forced to organize it.

Dante needed to prove to the other families that the transition was seamless. That the "Decoy" knew her place.

I stood by the bar, nursing a club soda, watching Dante fasten a platinum watch around Sofia's wrist. The metal caught the sun, blindingly bright. It was engraved with D&S.

"To the future," Dante toasted, raising his glass.

"To us," Sofia beamed, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.

I walked over to them, clutching a vintage leather-bound book against my chest.

"A gift," I said softly, my voice barely carrying over the ambient jazz. "For the bride."

Sofia's eyes narrowed, suspicion warring with her inherent greed. Greed won. She snatched the book.

"What is it? A Bible? Are you trying to save my soul?" she mocked, flipping it over in her hands.

"Open it," I urged.

She cracked the cover.

Inside, the pages had been hollowed out to form a perfect cavity. Nestled within sat a massive, hairy tarantula I had acquired from an exotic dealer in Queens.

Sofia screamed-a high, piercing sound that silenced the band. She threw the book into the air.

The spider, disoriented, landed squarely on her bare shoulder.

She flailed, panic hijacking her motor functions. She stumbled backward, her heels catching on the wet stone.

She hit the edge of the infinity pool and toppled in.

"Help!" she shrieked, splashing wildly. She could swim perfectly well-I had watched her swim laps just that morning-but she was playing the victim to perfection.

Dante didn't hesitate. He dove in, his tuxedo jacket ruining instantly.

I stood by the edge, watching the ripples.

Sofia grabbed Dante, pulling him down in her theatrical panic.

Then, I felt a heavy hand on my back.

One of Sofia's guards.

"You need to cool off," he grunted.

He shoved me.

I hit the water hard. The cold was a physical blow, shocking my system.

I couldn't swim. Dante knew I couldn't swim. It was one of my primal fears.

I thrashed, water instantly filling my mouth and lungs. I sank like a stone.

I forced my eyes open underwater. The chlorine stung, blurring my vision.

I saw Dante. He was five feet away, suspended in the blue. He had Sofia in his arms. She was safe. She was calm.

He looked at me.

Our eyes locked through the distortion.

I reached out a desperate hand.

Help me, I mouthed, the bubbles escaping my lips.

Dante looked at my outstretched fingers. Then, he looked at Sofia.

He turned to back on me.

He kicked his legs and swam toward the surface, carrying the woman who had killed my cat, leaving me to the darkness.

He left me to die.

My lungs burned with fire. My vision tunneled to black.

I stopped fighting.

Let it happen, I told myself. Let the water take you.

But as the darkness swallowed me, a pair of strong arms grabbed my waist.

Not Dante's.

I was hauled to the surface, coughing and retching, air rushing back into my chest in painful gasps.

I was dragged onto the rough concrete.

Dante was standing there, dripping wet, wrapping a towel around a shivering Sofia.

He looked down at me, huddled on the ground.

"You tried to kill her with that spider," he accused, his voice void of warmth. "You tried to kill my fiancée."

I coughed up water, my throat raw. "You... you let me drown."

"You need a lesson," Sofia said, her teeth chattering, though her eyes were triumphant. "A real lesson."

Dante looked at his Consigliere.

"Take her to The Pit," he commanded.

My blood ran cold. The Pit was the underground fight club run by the Santoro family's rivals. It was where traitors were beaten for sport.

"Dante, no," I whispered, infusing my voice with terror. "They will kill me."

Dante turned away.

"I bet a million dollars she doesn't last three minutes," he said to Sofia.

He grabbed Sofia's hand and walked back toward the party, leaving me on the wet tiles.

Two guards grabbed my arms, dragging me toward a waiting black van.

As the doors slammed shut, plunging me into darkness, I didn't cry for Dante Moretti.

I reached into my soaking dress and touched the burner phone I had waterproofed in a plastic bag.

I had sent the final text moments before I approached them.

Tonight. The Pit. I am yours.

Dante thought he was sending me to my death.

He was wrong.

He was sending me to his executioner.