Elena POV

I spent the next three days packing, moving through the motions with a cold, mechanical efficiency.

I didn't pack everything.

I took only the clothes I had bought with my own money, my sketchbooks, and the few pieces of jewelry my mother had left me before she jumped off the balcony.

Everything else remained.

I left the diamond necklaces Dante had given me as apology gifts for his affairs. They were beautiful, heavy things, weighed down by lies.

I left the couture gowns he liked to see me in at galas.

I moved my things into the guest room at the far end of the East Wing.

Dante didn't stop me.

He didn't come home for three nights.

I knew where he was.

He was with her.

Sofia Rossi.

Sunday arrived, bringing with it the heavy dread of obligation.

The mandatory Family Dinner at the main Vitiello Estate.

Attendance was not optional.

I dressed in a simple black dress featuring a high neck and long sleeves. Standing before the mirror, the reflection staring back wasn't a wife.

I looked like a widow.

When I arrived at the estate, the driveway was full of armored SUVs, shining like black beetles under the afternoon sun.

I walked into the main hall.

The air was thick, heavy with the cloying scent of cigars and roasted meat. It smelled like excess. Like power.

My father was there, the Greco Capo, drinking with Dante's uncles.

He saw me and sneered, his lip curling in distaste.

"Where is your husband?" he asked. "A wife should arrive with her husband."

"Ask him," I said, my voice devoid of emotion as I walked past him.

I entered the dining room.

Dante was already there.

He was sitting at the head of the table, a dark king on his throne.

Sofia was standing next to him, her hand resting casually on his shoulder.

She was wearing a red dress that was too tight and cut too low for a family dinner. It was a scream for attention in a room full of whispers.

She looked vibrant, alive, and victorious.

She was the daughter of a low-level associate, yet tonight she paraded around like the Queen.

"Elena!" Sofia chirped when she saw me, her voice saccharine sweet. "We were just wondering if you were going to show up. Dante said you were feeling... unstable."

The table went quiet.

The Capos, the soldiers, the wives—they all looked at me.

Some with pity, most with scorn.

Dante didn't look at me. He simply took a sip of his wine, his profile carved from stone.

"I'm fine," I said.

I took my seat at the other end of the table, as far from Dante as possible.

Dinner was a torture session.

Sofia laughed loudly at Dante's jokes.

She cut his meat for him.

She whispered in his ear, her hand lingering on his neck.

In my past life, I would have made a scene.

I would have thrown my wine glass.

I would have cried and demanded Dante respect me.

That's what they expected.

The "Bratty Princess."

But I just ate my soup.

I focused on the texture of the bread.

I focused on the plan forming in my head.

Paris.

I just needed to get to Paris.

When the men moved to the smoking room and the women went to the parlor, I slipped away.

I walked down the quiet hallway to the Family Chapel.

It was the only place in this house that felt holy.

It was where the Old Don's ashes were kept in a jade urn on the altar.

He was the grandfather who had forced this marriage, yes, but he was also the only one who had ever told me I had talent.

I knelt before the altar.

I pulled out my rosary.

It was jade, matching the urn.

"I'm sorry, Grandfather," I whispered. "I can't keep your promise anymore."

I placed the rosary on top of the urn.

The heavy oak door creaked open behind me.

I didn't turn.

The sharp click of heels on the stone floor told me who it was.

"Praying for a miracle?" Sofia's voice echoed in the small space.

I stood up and turned to face her.

"Leave, Sofia."

"This is my chapel now," she said, walking closer. "Or it will be soon. Dante promised me."

"He promised a lot of things," I said.

"He hates you," she spat, her mask slipping to reveal the ugly jealousy underneath. "You know that, right? He calls you a shackle. A burden."

"I know," I said calmly.

My lack of reaction infuriated her.

She wanted the fight.

She wanted the drama she could use to cry into Dante's chest later.

She stepped up to the altar.

"You don't deserve to be here," she said. "You don't deserve to carry the Vitiello name."

She reached out and grabbed the jade urn.

"Don't touch that," I warned, my voice dropping an octave.

"Oops," she said.

She smiled, a cruel, twisted thing.

And then she threw the urn onto the stone floor.

The sound was sickening—a sharp crack followed by the hollow shattering of ceramic.

Jade shattered.

Grey ash exploded into the air, coating the pristine floor, the altar, and the hem of my dress.

The remains of the man who built this empire were reduced to dust under her heels.

I stared at the mess, frozen in horror.

Sofia didn't look horrified.

She looked excited.

With a manic gleam in her eyes, she reached up and ripped the strap of her own dress.

Her nails dug into her skin as she scratched her own chest, drawing bright red blood.

Then she opened her mouth and screamed.

"Help! Dante! Help me!"

She threw herself onto the floor, rolling in the ashes.

"She's crazy! She's destroying everything!"

The doors burst open.

Dante was the first one through.

He saw the shattered urn.

He saw the ashes.

He saw Sofia weeping on the floor, clutching her torn dress.

And he saw me, standing over them, silent and still.

Dante's face went pale, then red.

The vein in his forehead pulsed violently.

"Elena," he roared.

His voice shook the stained glass.

It wasn't a question.

It was a verdict.

Elena POV

"She attacked me!" Sofia wailed, crawling toward Dante across the soot-stained floor. "I caught her trying to destroy the urn because she hates your grandfather for the marriage! I tried to stop her, and she... she hit me!"

She held up her scratched chest as proof.

It was a pathetic, transparent lie.

My hands were pristine. My nails were manicured and smooth, devoid of skin or blood.

But Dante didn't look at my hands.

He looked at the pile of grey dust that used to be the only father figure he had ever respected.

He looked at the woman he thought was his solace, crying in the dirt.

"You desecrated this house," Dante said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.

Behind him, my father and the other Capos filled the doorway, a wall of judgment.

They were murmuring, a low buzz of condemnation.

Disrespect to the ancestors was a cardinal sin in our world.

"I didn't do it," I said.

My voice was steady, but my heart was hammering against my ribs.

"Liar!" my father shouted from the back, eager to distance himself from my alleged shame. "She's always been a spiteful brat!"

Dante stepped over the ashes, his boots crunching on the remnants of his legacy.

He grabbed me by the throat.

He didn't squeeze enough to kill, just enough to control, to dominate.

He pushed me back until my spine collided with the cold edge of the stone altar.

"Look at what you did," he hissed. "Look at it!"

"I see what she did," I choked out.

Dante released me with a shove of disgust.

"Take Sofia to the infirmary," he ordered his men.

Two soldiers rushed in and helped Sofia up.

She shot me a look of pure malice over her shoulder as she limped out, sobbing with practiced theatricality.

"Dante," Enzo, his best friend and Second-in-Command, stepped forward. "Maybe we should check the..."

"Check what?" Dante snapped. "The urn is in pieces, Enzo. My grandfather is on the floor."

He turned back to me.

"You wanted a separation?" he asked. "You wanted to act like you don't belong to this family?"

"I didn't do this," I repeated.

"Silence!" he shouted. The sound bounced off the stone walls.

He unbuckled his belt.

The heavy leather slid through the loops with a lethal hiss.

The room went deathly silent.

Corporal punishment wasn't uncommon for soldiers who failed.

But for a wife?

It was unheard of.

It was the ultimate humiliation.

"Turn around," he ordered.

I looked at him.

I looked for the boy I had saved from the frozen lake.

I looked for the man I had loved since I was twelve.

He wasn't there.

Only the Don remained.

"Dante, don't," Enzo said, stepping closer. "This is too far."

"She needs to learn respect," Dante said. "Turn around, Elena. Or I will have the guards hold you down."

I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of struggling.

I turned around.

I placed my hands on the cold stone of the altar.

I stared at the stained glass window above.

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper.

*Crack.*

The belt slashed across my back.

It felt like a line of fire being drawn across my skin.

My body jerked forward, but I didn't make a sound.

*Crack.*

The second lash was harder.

It tore through the silk of my dress.

I felt the skin break.

"Beg," Dante growled. "Apologize to the family."

I said nothing.

I focused on the pain.

I let the pain burn away the last remnants of my hope.

Every strike was a memory dying, severed from my heart.

*Crack.*

The time I gave him my blood. *Gone.*

*Crack.*

The time I took the knife for him. *Gone.*

*Crack.*

The wedding vows. *Gone.*

I counted to ten.

My knees gave out.

I slumped against the altar, sliding down to the floor.

My back was wet and sticky.

The room was spinning.

Dante stopped.

He was breathing hard, his chest heaving with exerted rage.

He dropped the belt. It landed in the ashes, kicking up a small cloud of grey.

"Get her out of here," he said to the guards. "Lock her in her room. No doctor until morning. Let her think about what she did."

He turned and walked out of the chapel without looking back.

Two guards grabbed my arms.

They dragged me through the ashes.

My shoes left two long trails in the grey dust, marking the path of my ruin.

I didn't pass out.

I wished I had.

Instead, I felt every step, every bump, every moment of the shame burning into my soul.

They threw me onto the bed in the guest room and locked the door.

I lay there in the dark.

I didn't cry.

Tears were for people who had hope.

I had nothing but the fire branding my back and the ice encasing my heart.

Elena POV

For two days, I lay on my stomach, existing in a haze of agony.

I cleaned the wounds myself, bypassing the first aid kit for the vodka from the mini-bar and a fresh towel.

The sting was blinding, a white-hot fire that seared through my nerves, but it kept me awake.

It kept me angry.

I refused the food the maids brought, leaving the trays to go cold outside the door.

I refused to speak to anyone.

On the third day, I stood up.

My back was stiff, a canvas of scabs and blooming bruises that pulled tight with every breath.

I put on a loose silk robe, the fabric cool against my feverish skin.

I walked into the main bedroom.

Dante wasn't there.

I opened the walk-in closet.

With a calm, terrifying precision, I took every bag, every shoe, every piece of jewelry he had ever bought me.

I dragged them to the balcony.

I threw them over the railing.

They landed on the pristine lawn three stories below—a deluge of Louis Vuitton, Chanel, and diamonds.

The gardeners stopped their mowers, shielding their eyes as they stared at the fortune raining from the sky.

I went back inside.

Today was my twenty-fourth birthday.

In my past life, I had spent this day waiting for Dante to come home, only for him to send a text at midnight saying he was busy.

Not this time.

I called my friend, Clara. She was a civilian, a gallery owner who knew nothing about the Family business or the violence that fueled it.

"Clara," I said. "I want to go out. The Sapphire Club."

"Elena? Oh my god, happy birthday! Are you sure? Dante usually..."

"Dante isn't invited," I cut in, my voice distinct.

I put on a backless dress.

It was risky. It was a declaration of war.

The welts were still visible, angry crimson ridges crisscrossing my pale skin like a grotesque map.

But I wanted them to be seen.

I wanted the world to see his artwork.

The Sapphire Club was loud, dark, and expensive.

We got a VIP booth.

I drank champagne. I danced.

For the first time in years, I felt like a person, buoyed by the bass and the alcohol.

"You look amazing," Clara shouted over the music. "But your back... what happened?"

"I fell," I lied, the excuse slipping out effortlessly. "Into a rosebush."

Around midnight, the atmosphere in the club shifted.

The music didn't stop, but the air got heavier, charged with a sudden, electric tension.

People parted like the Red Sea.

Dante walked in.

He was flanked by Enzo and three other soldiers, moving with the lethal grace of predators.

And Sofia.

Of course.

She was clinging to his arm, wearing a white dress that made her look like a virgin saint.

Dante scanned the room.

His eyes locked on me.

He saw the backless dress.

He saw the marks.

His jaw tightened.

He marched toward our booth, darkness trailing in his wake.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, looming over the table.

"Celebrating," I said, sipping my drink with feigned nonchalance. "It's my birthday. Or did you forget?"

"You should be at home," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You're making a scene."

"I'm just dancing, Dante. You're the one bringing an army."

Sofia stepped forward.

"Happy Birthday, Elena," she said sweetly, her voice dripping with faux concern. "We didn't know you were coming. We just wanted a nightcap."

"Go away, Sofia," I said.

"Don't talk to her like that," Dante snapped.

"Why?" I stood up. I was wearing heels, so I was almost eye-level with him.

"Because she's your favorite pet? Because she's the one you want in your bed?"

"You're drunk," Dante said. He reached for my arm.

"Don't touch me!" I yelled.

The music seemed to stop.

Everyone was watching.

"You whipped me," I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You beat your wife like a dog because of her lies. And now you parade her around on my birthday?"

"Elena, enough," Dante warned. His hand was twitching toward his gun, a reflex.

"It's not enough!" I screamed. "I hate you, Dante. I hate you for everything you've done."

I grabbed a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket.

I didn't aim at him.

I aimed at the floor between us, wanting to smash it, to make a noise as loud as my rage.

Sofia shrieked. "She's going to kill me!"

She threw herself at Dante.

Dante reacted on instinct.

He shoved me.

He meant to push me back, to create distance.

But he used his full strength.

I flew backward.

I crashed into the tower of champagne glasses behind me.

The sound was deafening—a symphony of destruction.

Glass shattered.

Hundreds of shards.

I hit the floor hard.

Pain exploded in my arm, my side, my legs.

I lay there in a puddle of expensive alcohol and broken crystal.

Warm blood started to pool around me, mixing with the champagne in a swirl of pink and crimson.

"Elena!" Clara screamed.

Dante stood frozen, his hand still outstretched.

He looked at me.

He looked at the blood spreading on the floor.

Then Sofia moaned. "Dante... I think I twisted my ankle."

Dante looked at me.

Then he looked at Sofia.

He hesitated.

For one second, he hesitated.

And then he turned to Sofia.

"Are you okay?" he asked, helping her sit down on the plush velvet seat.

That was the moment.

That was the final nail in the coffin.

I lay in the glass, bleeding, watching my husband check his mistress for a twisted ankle while I had shards of glass embedded in my skin.

I started to laugh.

It was a wet, gurgling sound.

Enzo rushed over to me. He took off his jacket and pressed it against the deep cut on my arm.

"Call an ambulance!" Enzo shouted at the staff, his voice cracking with urgency.

Dante's head snapped back to me.

He saw the amount of blood.

Panic flashed in his eyes.

He took a step toward me.

"Elena..."

"Don't," I whispered.

I looked at him through the haze of pain.

"Don't you dare come near me."