That night, he tried to claim me.

He reached for me in the thick, unbreathing darkness of the bedroom, his hand sliding with a proprietary ease up my thigh. My skin crawled. The sensation was an abomination-like the dry skittering of insects over my bare flesh.

"I have a migraine," I lied, wrenching my body away with a violence that surprised us both. "The stress."

Dante sighed, the exhalation a sound of pure annoyance, not concern. "Fine. Get some rest. You need to look pretty for the photos."

I waited until his breathing settled into a heavy, oblivious rhythm before I slipped out of bed.

I moved like a phantom into the study. I took out a heavy cream card stock. A wedding invitation.

Elena Vitiello & Valerio Moretti.

The ink was black. Sharp. It felt final, like a death warrant.

I placed the invitation inside a small velvet box, the kind usually reserved for a valuable timepiece. I tied it with a black ribbon.

The next morning, while he was slumped over his espresso, I slid the box across the chilly surface of the marble island.

"A gift," I said. "For the wedding morning."

Dante's eyes lit up with a predictable, childish greed. He shook the box. "Cufflinks? That Patek Philippe I wanted?"

"Something better," I said, my voice coated in a false sweetness. "But you have to promise not to open it until the ceremony. Right before you say 'I do'. Keep it in your pocket. It's a... lucky charm."

"I promise," he said, kissing the box. "I love surprises."

"I know you do."

He went to shower. The moment the pipes began to groan, I picked up his phone. He had changed the passcode, but I had watched him enter it yesterday. 0-7-0-1. Sofia's birthday.

Pathetic.

I didn't waste time with his texts. I went directly to the encrypted app the Families used. The Network.

I scrolled past the business deals and turf wars until I found it. A video posted by one of Dante's soldiers, a man named Rocco who was too stupid for his own preservation.

The caption: Boss making moves.

I pressed play.

The video was grainy, filmed in the murky light of a nightclub. It was Dante, in the VIP room of a club.

He was raising a champagne glass, his other arm cinched possessively around Sofia's waist. She was flashing the yellow diamond ring I had seen him offer her last week.

"To Sofia," he shouted over the concussive beat in the video. "To the woman who makes me feel alive! To our future!"

The soldiers cheered.

I checked the timestamp. Last night. 9:45 PM.

My throat constricted, the cartilage seeming to lock in place. While I was at the sink, scouring the lipstick from his collar with boiling water, he was at a secret engagement party. He had come home to me with the scent of that celebration still clinging to his skin.

I checked the comments.

User: Capo_Rocco - "Don't let the Ice Princess see this."

User: Dante_R - "She's blocked. She doesn't know how to use this app anyway. She's just a placeholder."

Placeholder.

The word landed in the profound quiet of the kitchen and stayed there, a dead thing.

I put the phone down just as the bathroom door opened. Dante walked out, a towel draped low around his waist, steam billowing behind him like a battlefield fog.

"Elena, have you seen my phone?"

"On the counter," I said, sipping my tea. My grip on the porcelain cup was perfectly steady. "Dante, Rocco posted a funny video."

Dante froze. The color drained from his face, leaving his skin the shade of old parchment. "What?"

"A cat video. You should see it."

He grabbed the phone, his fingers fumbling with a sudden lack of coordination. He tapped furiously, his eyes scanning the screen. I saw his shoulders sag in a wave of relief when he realized I hadn't "seen" anything incriminating.

But then his phone buzzed. A text.

He read it and cursed under his breath. "Rocco is an idiot."

"Is everything okay?" I asked, a study in feigned innocence.

"Fine. Just... business. I have to go out tonight. A meeting with associates."

"Can I come?"

"No!" He answered too quickly, his voice sharp with alarm. "It's... dangerous. Boring. You stay here. Pack for the honeymoon."

"Okay," I said. "Have fun with your associates."

He dressed quickly, shouting into his phone as he walked out. "Delete it! Delete everything! If she sees it, the Vitiello deal is dead!"

The door slammed.

I waited five minutes. Then I went to my closet and pulled out a dress I had never worn. It was black. Backless. It was a weapon.

"Rocco mentioned they were going to Club Inferno," I whispered to the empty room.

It was time to crash the party.

Club Inferno was less a venue and more a descent into a pulsing, sensory assault.

Strobe lights fractured the smoky haze into jagged shards, a thumping bass vibrated deep in the bone, and the air was thick with the commingled smells of sweat and expensive vodka.

It was nominally neutral territory, but tonight, Dante had colonized the VIP skybox.

I walked past the bouncers. They knew me. They shifted on their feet, looking nervous at the sight of the Vitiello princess alone, but they didn't dare stop me.

I climbed the stairs to the VIP level. I could hear them before I saw them-a raw, braying laugh rising above the music.

"To the spoils of war!" someone shouted. Glasses clinked.

I stood in the shadows of the hallway, peering through the heavy velvet curtains.

Dante was sprawled on the central leather couch, a petty king on his throne. His tie was loose. And she was there.

Sofia.

She was sheathed in a silver dress that looked more like peeled chrome than silk. She was straddling his lap, her fingers tangled in his hair.

"Baby, I need that Birkin," she whined, tracing his jaw with a talon-like nail. "The crocodile one."

"Buy it," Dante said, laughing. "Buy two. I'll put it on the company card."

"The Vitiello account?" Rocco asked, snickering from the corner.

"Why not?" Dante grinned, a cruel light glinting in his eyes. "Consider it Elena's dowry paying for real love."

I felt the bile rise, hot and acidic, in my throat. It wasn't just the cheating. It was the disrespect. The absolute mockery of my family, my name, my existence.

"Truth or Dare!" Sofia squealed, clapping her hands like a spoiled child. "Truth. Dante, who is better in bed? Me or the Princess?"

The room went quiet. The soldiers smirked, waiting for the punchline.

Dante took a shot of tequila, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Come on, Sof. You know I haven't touched her in months. She's... frigid. Like a statue. You have fire. She's just... necessary. She's the key to the city. Once I have the Vitiello territories, she'll just be the furniture in my house."

"So you don't love her?" Sofia pressed, pouting. "You swear?"

"I pity her," Dante said. The word echoed in my skull with more force than the bass. "I pity her because she thinks this is a fairy tale. She's a good political placeholder. That's all."

Pity.

My vision blurred. The red lights of the club seemed to bleed together into a single, throbbing wound. The floor tilted.

I turned to run. I couldn't listen to another word. I needed air.

My heel caught on the plush carpet of the hallway.

I stumbled.

I reached for the railing, but my hand slipped on the damp brass.

I fell.

The world became a violent kaleidoscope of impacts and disorientation. The sharp edge of a step struck my ribs, then my shoulder, then my head slammed against the wall.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I landed at the bottom of the private staircase in a heap of black silk and pain.

Darkness encroached on my vision.

Above me, the curtain parted. Dante stepped out, buttoning his shirt. He looked down into the murky stairwell. He didn't see me-Elena. He just saw a shape in the dark. He was looking at his phone, laughing at something Sofia had sent him.

He stepped right over my legs.

He registered an obstacle, a drunken patron passed out on the floor, and he adjusted his stride to clear it.

He stepped over me like I was refuse.

"Taxi's here, babe!" he called back to Sofia.

He left.

He left me broken at the bottom of the stairs.

I closed my eyes, and the darkness finally took me.

The sharp, stinging scent of antiseptic woke me.

I blinked against the unforgiving glare of a fluorescent light. White ceiling. White walls. The steady, mechanical hum of machines.

I tried to sit up, but a sharp blaze of pain in my ribs pinned me back down.

"Easy, Miss Vitiello," a nurse said, rushing over to put a steadying hand on my shoulder. "You took a nasty fall. Minor concussion, bruised ribs."

"Who brought me in?" My voice was a rasping croak.

"A bouncer from the club. He found you."

Not Dante. Of course not.

I lay there for an hour, staring at the IV drip. Every drop was a second of my life I had wasted on Dante Romero.

"Did you hear?" voices drifted from the hallway. Nurses gossiping in conspiratorial whispers.

"Room 304. Mr. Romero. Apparently, things got too wild with his... mistress. He dislocated his shoulder."

"Mistress? I thought he was marrying the Vitiello girl."

"Men like that always have spares."

Anger, hot and clarifying, surged through my veins. I sat up. Pain flared, a white-hot brand against my side, but I ignored it. I ripped the IV tape off my hand, wincing as the needle pulled free from the vein.

I slid off the bed. My legs were shaky, but I stood. I smoothed down my ruined black dress and washed the blood from my lip in the sink.

I walked out into the hallway.

Room 304 was just down the corridor. The door was open.

Dante was sitting on the edge of the bed, his arm in a sling. Sofia was hovering over him, feeding him ice chips.

They looked like a happy couple.

I walked in.

Dante looked up. His face went white. He scrambled to stand, pushing Sofia away with a sudden jerk, as if her touch had become poison.

"Elena! My god, what happened to you? You're bleeding!"

He reached for me. I stepped back, recoiling as if he were diseased.

"I fell," I said simply. "Down the stairs at Inferno."

Dante's eyes widened. He realized. He realized I had been there.

"Elena, I..." He looked at Sofia, then back at me, raw panic swimming in his gaze. "This is... this is Sofia. An old friend. She... she had a medical emergency. I was just helping her."

Sofia smirked. She stepped forward, extending a manicured hand. "Hi. I'm Sofia. The 'Friend'. Nice to finally meet the furniture."

Dante hissed. "Sofia, shut up."

I didn't shake her hand. I looked past her, at Dante. "Is this the business that delayed the wedding?"

"Elena, please. It's complicated. I was going to tell you."

"Are you marrying her?" I asked.

"No!" Dante shouted.

"Yes!" Sofia shouted at the same time.

Sofia crossed her arms. "On the first. Same day as yours. Funny, right? Dante says he can handle two ceremonies. He's a multi-tasker."

Dante looked like he wanted to die. "Elena, she's crazy. She's... she's sick. She has cancer. It's a dying wish thing. I'm just humoring her."

The lies were so thick I could feel them coating my throat. Cancer. Dying wish.

I laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound.

"You're busy that day, Dante," I said.

"I can make it work," he pleaded. "I'll be at the altar for you. I swear."

"No," I said, backing toward the door. "I mean I am busy that day."

He frowned. "What do you mean? You're the bride."

I held his gaze. My eyes were dry. My heart was a piece of dead iron in my chest.

"I am getting married that day, Dante. I will be walking down an aisle. I will be saying vows."

"Right. To me."

I smiled, but the expression felt sharp, like the baring of teeth.

"I am getting married," I repeated. "But you might want to check the invitation I gave you."

"Elena, stop talking in riddles! You're hurt. Let me take you home."

"Don't touch me," I snapped. The command cracked like a whip. Even Sofia flinched.

"I have to go," I said. "I have a wedding to plan. And a groom to meet."

"Stop joking!" Dante yelled as I turned my back. "You can't marry anyone else! You're mine!"

I didn't look back. I walked down the sterile white hallway, leaving the dead weight of my past behind in Room 304.

I pulled out my phone. I dialed a number I had memorized from my father's old ledger. I needed to confirm the pact. I needed to know the monster was coming.

It rang once.

"Moretti Residence," a deep, gravelly voice answered.

"This is Elena Vitiello," I said. "Tell the Don the date is set. The first of the month."

A beat of charged quiet passed over the line. Then, a low chuckle that sounded like stones grinding together.

"The Reaper is listening, Miss Vitiello."

"Tell him," I said, staring at the exit sign, "I'll see him at the altar."