Dante POV

The tuxedo didn't just fit; it constricted, binding me like a straitjacket.

I stood at the high altar of St. Patrick's Cathedral, sweating under the heavy fabric despite the cool air of the sanctuary.

The pews were packed with the vultures of the underworld-every crime boss from Boston to Miami.

They were here to witness the union of the Moretti and Genovese families.

They were here to see me chain myself to a woman I couldn't stand.

I adjusted the gun in my holster beneath my jacket, the cold steel offering the only comfort in the room.

Just one more hour.

That was the deal I made with myself.

Marry her. Say the vows. Take the photos.

Then the Commission would be satisfied. The war would be over.

And I could go back to Elena.

I had it all planned out.

I had bought a villa in Tuscany. Secluded. Private.

I would move Elena there. I would visit every month, away from this life, away from this lie.

Sofia didn't care. She had the title. She had the ring. She had the kids.

She had promised me last night.

"Give me the wedding, Dante, and I will look the other way."

I believed her because I had to.

The organ music swelled, vibrating against my ribs.

The heavy oak doors groaned open.

Sofia began her descent down the aisle.

She looked like a queen.

The guests murmured in admiration.

I felt sick, bile rising in my throat.

I looked at the empty seat in the back row where I had imagined Elena sitting.

I wanted her to see this.

I wanted her to see that this meant nothing.

It was just business.

Why couldn't she understand that?

Why did she have to fight me at every turn?

Why did she look at me in the hospital like I was a stranger?

"I release you."

Her words echoed in my head, louder than the organ.

She didn't get to release me.

I owned her. I saved her life. I bled for her.

She was mine.

Sofia reached the altar.

She smiled at me. It was a sharp, predatory smile.

"You look handsome, husband," she whispered.

"Let's get this over with," I muttered.

The priest began to speak.

He talked about love. About sacrifice. About two souls becoming one.

I zoned out.

I thought about Elena's skin. The way she smelled like rain and vanilla.

I thought about the way she used to look at me before the ice entered her eyes.

I would fix it.

Tonight.

I would leave the reception early. I would go to the estate. I would kick down her door if I had to.

I would make her understand that this was all for us.

I had invested millions in this wedding to buy our freedom.

The priest turned to me.

"Dante Moretti, do you take this woman..."

I looked at Sofia.

For a second, her face blurred.

I saw Elena.

I saw Elena bleeding on the table. I saw Elena under the whip.

My chest tightened until I couldn't breathe.

"I do," I choked out.

The words tasted like ash.

I slid the ring onto Sofia's finger.

It felt cold.

It felt like I was handcuffing myself to a corpse.

Dante POV

"You may kiss the bride."

The words were a sentence, not a blessing.

Sofia leaned in. She reeked of expensive perfume and triumph.

Her lips touched mine, but I didn't close my eyes.

Instead, I stared blankly over her shoulder at the stained glass window, waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike me down for my hypocrisy.

She deepened the kiss, putting on a show for the cameras, and my stomach turned.

I pulled away abruptly.

The applause was deafening. It sounded like static in my ears, a white noise of meaningless noise.

We walked back down the aisle.

Rice rained down on us, stinging my skin like gravel.

Outside, the limo was waiting.

"Get in," Sofia said, waving to the crowd with a practiced smile.

I stopped.

I tore off my bow tie and unbuttoned my collar, desperate for air.

"Go to the reception," I said.

"What?" Sofia's smile faltered. "You have to cut the cake."

"I have business," I said cold.

"Dante!" she hissed, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Don't you dare embarrass me."

I turned on my heel, ignoring her.

I walked past the limo to my personal Aston Martin parked at the curb.

I got in and slammed the door, shutting out the world.

I peeled away from the curb, leaving my bride standing on the sidewalk in her ten-thousand-dollar dress.

I didn't care.

I drove like a madman, fueled by adrenaline and self-loathing.

I blew through red lights and wove through traffic with a death wish.

The need to see Elena was a physical pain, an ache in my bones.

I needed to wash the taste of Sofia off my mouth.

I needed to hold Elena and ground myself.

I pulled up to the estate, tires screeching on the pavement.

The guards at the gate looked surprised to see me.

"Where is she?" I barked as I rolled down the window.

"Miss Russo?" the guard stammered. "She's in her room, Boss. We haven't seen her come out."

"Good."

I parked the car haphazardly on the lawn and sprinted into the house.

I took the stairs two at a time.

I reached the hallway to the servants' quarters.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

I unlocked her door.

"Elena?"

I pushed the door open.

The room was pristine.

The bed was made. The closet door was open.

It was empty.

My clothes-the designer pieces I had bought for her-were hanging there like ghosts.

The jewelry box sat on the dresser, closed.

"Elena!" I shouted.

I checked the bathroom. Empty.

I checked under the bed. Empty.

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through my gut like a knife.

I ran back into the hallway.

"Isabella!" I roared.

My mother appeared at the end of the hall. She was still wearing her mother-of-the-groom dress.

She didn't look surprised.

"Where is she?" I demanded, marching up to her and grabbing her by the shoulders. "Where did you hide her?"

Isabella looked at me calmly.

"She is gone, Dante."

"Gone where?"

"Away. She left."

I shook her.

"You lie!" I snatched her phone from her hand. "She has no money. She has nowhere to go."

Isabella reached into her purse.

She pulled out a piece of paper.

"She chose this, Dante. You broke her. And now she is free."

I stared at the paper.

It was a page torn from a notebook.

My hands shook as I took it.

It felt heavy.

It felt like a death warrant.