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."

Elena Vitiello POV

The penthouse was no longer a home; it was a sterile display case, meticulously arranged and devoid of life.

I moved through the rooms with mechanical precision, erasing all evidence of my existence. I didn't pack everything. Just the essentials.

My grandmother's rosary.

The pearl earrings my mother gave me for my sweet sixteen.

The Glock my father insisted I learn to shoot when I turned eighteen.

Everything Dante bought me stayed.

The diamond tennis bracelet on the vanity? Refuse.

The fur coat in the closet? A dead animal's skin.

I walked to the kitchen island where the dead roses still sat. They were brown now, brittle as old bones. I picked up the vase and hurled it into the sink.

Crash.

Glass exploded. Water and rotting stems splattered against the stainless steel. It was a satisfying sound-the clean, final fracture of something that could never be mended.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Unknown Number.

I swiped the screen. A photo loaded.

It was explicit. A tangle of limbs, sweat-slicked skin, and Dante's distinctive tattoo-a cross on his shoulder blade-clearly visible. He was asleep. She was awake, smiling at the camera, her tongue teasing her upper lip.

Text: He's sleeping like a baby. Don't worry, I kept him warm for you. See you on the 1st, Princess.

I didn't delete it. I saved it. I backed it up to the cloud.

I felt a numbness spreading through my chest, a sensation like novocaine seeping into my veins, freezing the tears before they could form. This wasn't heartbreak anymore. This was fuel.

The front door beeped. The lock turned.

Dante walked in. He looked exhausted, his arm still in the sling from the "accident" at the hospital. He spotted me standing by the island, the suitcase by my feet.

His eyes flicked to the bag, a flash of irritation crossing his face before his features reassembled themselves into that boyish, lying expression I used to adore.

"Elena," he sighed, dropping his keys. "Thank god you're home. I was worried after you ran off at the hospital."

He walked over, his good arm reaching out to pull me close, choosing to ignore the luggage as if his presence alone could compel me to unpack.

I stood rigid.

He hugged me. He pressed his face into my hair. He smelled of antiseptic and... her. Underneath the sterile hospital scent, that cloying vanilla clung to him like a sickness.

"I'm sorry about the confusion," he murmured against my neck. "Sofia is... she's unstable. But I can't just abandon a dying woman. You understand, right? You've always been the compassionate one."

Compassionate.

That was his polite word for 'pliable'.

"She's a friend," he continued, pulling back to look me in the eye, his gaze attempting an earnestness that made my stomach roil. "Just a friend. I promise."

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

I searched for the man who saved me from the fire. I searched for the man who held my hand at my grandfather's funeral.

He wasn't there.

The man standing in front of me was a stranger wearing Dante's face. A stranger who thought I was stupid enough to believe a lie that didn't even try to be clever.

"You're right," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I understand everything now."

He smiled, relieved. "I knew you would. You're my rock, Elena. My queen."

He leaned in to kiss me.

I didn't move away. I just stared at his lips, thinking about where they had been. Thinking about the photo on my phone.

The man I loved died a long time ago. This was just his corpse, still moving.