Elena POV

I recognized the glint of silver before my eyes could even focus on the details.

It was the locket.

Vintage sterling, engraved with a delicate tangle of vines and roses.

I was the one who found it in an antique shop in Florence on our first anniversary.

I was the one who had carefully placed a picture of us inside.

And I was the one who had clasped it around his neck before he deployed, telling him it was his compass to find his way back to me.

Dante strode back to Mia.

He didn't look at me.

He didn't see the woman dying by inches against the tree mere feet away.

"I found it," he said, his voice rough with relief. "I told you I'd find it."

He fastened it around Mia's neck.

The silver chain rested against her throat.

It looked wrong.

It looked like a lie.

Mia clutched the locket as if it were a lifeline.

"Thank you, Artie. I was so scared. It's the only thing I have of yours from... before."

Dante smiled.

Then, with a tenderness that shattered me, he reached out and tapped the tip of her nose with his index finger.

Boop.

The world tilted on its axis.

My vision went black at the edges.

That was my gesture.

He used to do that when I was mad at him.

He used to do that when I was sad.

It was our secret language.

A silly, childish thing that the feared Don of Chicago only did for his wife.

And now, he was doing it for her.

He had given her my locket.

He had given her my gesture.

He had taken the most sacred parts of our history and transplanted them onto a stranger because he couldn't remember where they came from.

He just knew they meant love.

And he loved her.

Bile rose in my throat, hot and acidic.

I couldn't breathe.

The pain in my chest wasn't just the disease anymore.

It was my soul tearing itself apart.

I turned around.

I didn't care if I made noise.

I stumbled away, my heels sinking into the soft earth, fighting for balance.

I ran toward the house.

I ran toward my room.

I needed to hide.

I needed to scream.

But as I reached the sanctuary of my bedroom and collapsed onto the floor, no sound came out.

Only silence.

The silence of a ghost realizing she had already been exorcised.

Elena POV

The scent of peaches was so strong it made my mouth water, heavy and sweet in the air.

I was back in the orchard on the Vitiello estate.

The sun was high and hot, baking the earth, releasing the heady perfume of ripe fruit and dry grass.

I was twenty-one.

My white sundress danced around my legs, catching the warm breeze.

Dante was walking toward me between the rows of trees.

Gone was the tailored suit.

Instead, he was dressed in tactical gear, black and heavy, smelling of gun oil and leather.

He had just come from the shooting range.

He looked dangerous.

He looked like a god of war who had stumbled into a garden.

He stopped in front of me, blocking out the sun, casting me in his shadow.

He didn't smile often, but his eyes were warm when they landed on me.

"What are you looking at, Principessa?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in my chest.

He reached out and tapped the tip of my nose with a calloused finger.

A silent, playful gesture.

I laughed, swatting his hand away, but the humor faded quickly.

"I'm looking at my husband," I said. "You're leaving soon."

His face grew serious, the warmth in his eyes dimming slightly.

"Just a dispute in Chicago. I'll be back before the peaches rot."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the silver locket.

It was cool against my palm.

"Take this," I said. "So you remember who is waiting for you."

He took it.

His thumb brushed over the engraving.

E & D.

"I don't need silver to remember you, Elena," he said.

"Take it anyway."

He opened his hand.

In his palm sat a ring.

It was thick, silver, matching the locket's design.

"I had this made," he said. "A matching set. One stays with you. The other goes with me."

He slid the ring onto my finger.

It fit perfectly.

"This is our promise," he whispered, leaning his forehead against mine. "Wherever I am, this brings me back to you. Until death."

"Until death," I repeated.

He kissed me.

It tasted like peaches and gunpowder.

It tasted like eternity.

Elena POV

I jolted awake, gasping for air.

The phantom scent of peaches was gone.

In its place, the room reeked of antiseptic and old dust.

My chest was on fire—a sharp, stabbing pain radiating down my left arm.

I sat up, clutching the sheets, sweat trickling down my back.

It was just a dream.

A cruel, vivid ghost of a memory haunting the edges of my mind.

I swung my legs out of bed and moved to the vanity.

My hands trembled as I pried opened the velvet jewelry box.

The silver ring was there.

I picked it up.

It felt bitingly cold against my skin.

I slid it onto my finger, but my hands had grown so thin from the sickness that it spun loosely.

It didn't fit anymore.

Nothing fit anymore.

A soft rap echoed from the door.

I quickly pulled the ring off and dropped it back into the box.

"Come in," I rasped.

The door opened.

Mia stood silhouetted against the hallway light.

She was wearing a silk robe that belonged to the guest suite.

Her eyes were wide, rimmed with fear.

In her hand, she clutched the silver locket.

"Cousin Elena?" she whispered.

I turned to face her, pulling my own robe tighter around my frail frame.

"It's late, Mia. What's wrong?"

She stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind her.

She held the locket out to me.

Her hand was trembling.

"I opened it," she said. "I know I shouldn't have. But I wanted to see the picture."

My heart hammered against my ribs.

"And?"

"The picture is water damaged," she said. "You can't see the faces. But the engraving on the back... it's still clear."

She looked at me, her eyes filling with tears.

"E & D."

She took a breath that sounded dangerously like a sob.

"The guards... I heard them whispering in the kitchen. They spoke of Arthur... but they called him Dante. They said he was married. They said the Donna was heartbroken."

She took a step closer.

"E is for Elena. Isn't it?"

I didn't answer.

I couldn't.

"It's you," she whispered, the realization settling heavily between us. "You aren't his cousin. You're his wife."