Dante POV

I'd texted her at noon with a simple command:

Be ready at 7. Wear the red dress.

She didn't reply.

That was fine. I told myself she was just sulking.

I worked late on purpose, letting the anticipation build.

I wanted to walk in like a benevolent King granting mercy to a rebellious subject.

I arrived at the Villa at 7:15.

The scent hit me the moment I crossed the threshold.

Lilies.

The entire foyer was drowning in them.

Vases crowded every table; petals littered the floor like fallen snow.

It smelled like a funeral, though I reminded myself that Elena loved them.

I loosened my tie as I stepped deeper into the silence.

"Elena?" I called out.

Silence was my only answer.

The house was dark, save for the flickering candles the staff had lit.

I walked into the dining room.

Dinner was set for two.

The food was stone cold.

"Where is she?" I demanded of the maid cowering in the corner.

"I haven't seen Madam all day, sir," she whispered, trembling.

Irritation flared hot in my gut.

She was defying me. Again.

I pulled out my phone and dialed her number.

The subscriber you have dialed is not in service.

My frown deepened as the automated voice mocked me.

Not in service?

I marched up the stairs, my patience fraying with every step.

I went straight to her bedroom.

"Elena, open this door," I warned, my voice low and dangerous.

I didn't wait. I pushed it open.

The bed was made. Perfectly smooth.

Too smooth.

It looked like no one had slept in it for days.

I strode to the closet and threw the doors open.

Her clothes were there.

The red dress hung in the center, mocking me, untouched.

Her shoes were lined up in military precision.

But something was wrong.

The air was stale, devoid of her perfume.

I went to the jewelry box.

The diamonds I gave her were there.

The emeralds. The rubies.

I yanked open the drawer where she kept her documents.

Empty.

My heart skipped a beat.

"Matteo!" I roared.

My assistant appeared in the doorway seconds later, breathless.

"Find her," I ordered. "Now."

I sat heavily on the edge of her bed, the silence of the room pressing in on me.

Then, I saw something in the trash can.

I reached in and pulled it out.

It was the photo album.

The one with the pictures of us as kids.

The one she had saved from the fire when our first apartment burned down.

She loved this book more than her life.

And she had thrown it in the trash like it meant nothing.

Dread, cold and heavy, settled in the pit of my stomach.

I pulled up Luca's contact on my phone.

I held down the voice note button, my hand shaking with suppressed rage.

"Elena," I snarled into the phone. "If this is a game, you lose. Get back here in an hour, or I pull the plug on your brother for real this time."

I sent it.

It didn't deliver.

Dante POV

One hour bled into two.

Two stretched into an agonizing four.

The bedroom was a ruin of my own making.

The vanity mirror was shattered, a spiderweb of cracks reflecting my fractured composure. The anniversary lilies lay shredded on the floor, their white petals trampled into the expensive rug.

I sat amidst the debris in the armchair, lighting my twentieth cigarette with a trembling hand.

My knuckles were split and bleeding where I had punched the wall.

Why wasn't she answering?

She would never risk Luca. Never.

She was the most predictable creature on earth. Her love for that brother was her fatal weakness, and I held the knife against his throat.

When my phone finally vibrated against the armrest, I snatched it up before the first ring could finish.

Matteo.

"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice a low growl.

"Don Vitiello..." Matteo's voice was thready, shaking.

"Speak!"

"We checked the hospitals. We checked the morgues. We checked the flight manifests."

"And?"

"Her digital footprint... it's gone, sir. It's like she was never here. Like she was erased."

I laughed-a dark, humorless sound that scraped against my throat.

"She's a street rat, Matteo. She can't erase herself. She's hiding."

"Sir, there's something else."

"What?"

"I pulled the logs from the clinic regarding Luca."

I gripped the phone so hard the screen cracked under my thumb.

"Put him on video," I ordered, standing up. "I want to see him. I'll send her a video of me wrapping my hands around his throat. That will bring her out."

"Sir, you can't."

"Why?"

"Because he's dead, Don Vitiello."

The world didn't just stop spinning; it tilted on its axis.

"What did you say?"

"He died three days ago, sir. The night of the... incident with Sofia. The cardiac arrest. You... you blocked the doctors from entering."

"No."

The room swayed violently.

"That's a lie. She would have told me."

"The records show she claimed the body, sir. She had him cremated the next morning."

I dropped the phone.

It hit the floor with a dull, final thud.

She cremated him.

She buried him.

She came home to me.

She let me touch her.

She lied.

The memory of her eyes that night crashed into me.

They hadn't been submissive.

They were dead.

I had killed her brother.

And then I had forced her to kiss me with the same mouth that had just said goodbye to him forever.

A scream built in my chest, a pressurized wave of agony.

It started low, a rumble of absolute denial, before it tore its way out of my throat.

"Elena!"

I overturned the heavy oak table with a roar.

I smashed the remaining lamp against the wall.

I tore the velvet curtains from the windows, ripping them from the rods.

She was gone.

She was really gone.

And I was the one who had opened the door and shoved her out.

I fell to my knees in the wreckage of our anniversary.

The cloying scent of crushed lilies was suffocating now.

It didn't smell like a celebration anymore.

It smelled like a grave.

Dante POV

My office had become a graveyard of shattered glass and expensive mahogany.

The staff outside my door were silent. They could hear the destruction. They could smell the violence radiating off me like heat rising from black pavement.

I sat in the ruins of my leather chair, my gaze fixed on the phone lying on the floor.

It hadn't rung.

It wasn't going to.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

I expected Matteo.

Instead, I got Sofia.

She stormed in, clad in a white dress that likely cost more than Elena's entire wardrobe from the last five years.

"What is going on out there?" she shrieked.

She stepped delicately over a shattered lamp, her nose wrinkling in visible disgust.

"Why is everyone crying? And why haven't we left for the gala? You promised me a night to remember, Dante."

I looked up at her.

For the first time in months, I really looked at her.

I didn't see the artist. I didn't see the fragile bird I once thought I needed to protect.

I saw a vulture.

Her eyes weren't soft; they were calculating. Her mouth wasn't shaped for kisses; it was shaped for demands.

"Get out," I said. My voice was a low rasp, like gravel grinding together.

"Excuse me?" She planted a hand on her hip, indignation flashing across her face. "You don't talk to me like that. I am the future Mrs. Vitiello."

She laughed then-a sharp, grating sound that scraped against my nerves.

"Is this about her? Is this about the street rat? Did she finally run away to the gutter where she belongs?"

Something inside me snapped. A tether that had been fraying for weeks finally broke.

I stood up.

I crossed the room before she could draw another breath.

My hand wrapped around her throat.

I lifted her off the ground.

Her feet kicked at the empty air. Her eyes bulged. Her perfectly manicured nails clawed at my wrist, scratching deep red lines into my skin.

I didn't feel it.

"Don't you ever speak her name," I whispered, bringing her face close to mine so she could see the death in my eyes.

"You aren't worth the dirt on her shoes. You aren't worth the air she breathes."

"Dante... p-please..." she choked out.

I held her there for ten seconds.

I wanted to squeeze. I wanted to feel something break.

But killing her here, now, was too easy.

I opened my hand.

She dropped to the floor in a heap, gasping for air, clutching her bruised neck.

"Get out," I repeated.

She scrambled backward, crab-walking over the broken glass, terror finally replacing her arrogance.

She fled the room without looking back.

Matteo walked in a moment later.

He didn't look at the mess. He didn't look at the blood dripping from my hand.

He held a thick manila folder.

It looked heavy.

"Sir," he said quietly. "The investigation is complete."

He placed the folder on the only corner of the desk that wasn't destroyed.

"You need to read this. All of it."