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.

Elena Vance POV

The van smelled like rust and old blood.

I lay on the metal floor, shivering in my wet dress. My hands were zip-tied behind my back. The darkness was absolute, but the sounds were worse. The tires crunched over gravel, signaling we had left the paved roads of the Hamptons. We were heading somewhere forgotten.

Dante had not just cast me aside. He had disposed of me like rot.

The vehicle stopped with a jerk that sent my shoulder slamming into the wall. The doors flew open. Rough hands grabbed my ankles and dragged me out.

I hit the dirt hard.

The air here was thick with cigarette smoke and the metallic tang of violence. I knew where I was. Everyone in the family knew about The Pit. It was where the Moretti family disposed of problems that didn't warrant a bullet but didn't deserve a trial.

"Get up," a voice growled.

I was hauled to my feet. My legs were trembling, not just from the cold, but from the terrifying realization that I was going to die tonight.

They pushed me through a heavy steel door. The noise hit me like a physical blow-roaring, cheering, and the sickening thud of flesh on flesh.

We walked down a concrete corridor lined with cages. I saw eyes staring out from the shadows. Men who had betrayed the Don. Women who had seen too much.

We reached the main arena. It was a dirt ring surrounded by chain-link fencing. Floodlights buzzed overhead, illuminating the bloodstained earth.

Up in the VIP box, behind thick glass, I saw them.

Dante sat on a velvet throne. He looked bored. He was swirling a glass of whiskey, his eyes scanning the crowd with detached disinterest.

Sofia sat on his lap. She was laughing, pointing at the ring. She looked like a queen watching a jester prepare for execution.

The guard shoved me through the gate. I stumbled into the center of the ring.

A hush fell over the crowd. They weren't used to seeing a woman in a cocktail dress, dripping wet, looking like a broken doll.

The Pit Boss stepped up to the microphone.

"Fresh meat for the grinder!" he announced. "Courtesy of Underboss Moretti!"

The crowd roared.

I looked up at the glass box. I locked eyes with Dante.

Save me, my eyes begged. You loved me once. You held me when I had nightmares. You told me I was safe.

Dante leaned forward. He pressed a button on the intercom. His voice boomed over the speakers, smooth and indifferent.

"One million on the house fighter," he said.

My heart didn't break. It disintegrated.

He wasn't just watching me die. He was betting on it.

The gate on the other side of the ring opened.

A woman stepped out. She was pure muscle, her knuckles taped, her eyes void of humanity. She looked at me like I was a stain she needed to scrub out.

I backed up until my spine hit the cold chain-link fence.

Dante raised his glass in a mock toast.

"Begin," he commanded.