The funeral was yesterday.

Dante didn't show.

He sent flowers and a thick envelope of cash, the kind of expensive flowers meant to cover the stench of a bad deed.

I burned the bills in the kitchen sink, watching the faces on them curl into black ash.

I sat at the kitchen island, staring at the divorce papers I'd scrawled on a cocktail napkin. It was the only paper I could find when I'd finally made up my mind.

The front door slammed open, shaking the walls.

Dante stormed in, shrugging off his jacket, tossing it carelessly at a chair.

His eyes landed on the napkin immediately.

He picked it up, his thumb pressing an irreversible crease into it as he read the first line, and then tore it in half.

"Enough of this tantrum!" he snarled, tossing the pieces onto the counter.

He glared at me. "You want a divorce from me? Because I missed your brother's funeral? Camilla's been unwell, she's pregnant, I have to be there for her, you understand?"

"It's not a tantrum," I said. "I'm leaving."

"You're not going anywhere. You're my wife."

"Am I?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Then, the sharp click of heels on marble. Camilla appeared.

She was wearing one of my silk robes, a vintage one I loved.

It was open at the neck, displaying the hickeys on her collarbone and chest. She had one hand dramatically placed on her stomach, leaning against the doorframe.

"Dante... I feel so faint," she began, her voice a carefully controlled tremor. "The baby... I think he's restless. It's making me nauseous."

A muscle in Dante's jaw relaxed, his whole posture softening instantly, and a chill hit my chest.

He moved to her, placing his broad hand over hers.

"Go to the master bedroom," he murmured to her, low. "I'll be right there."

"That's my room," I said, my voice sharp as broken glass.

Dante turned to me, his hand on the counter clenching into a fist.

"Not anymore. Camilla needs the space. She needs the big bath for her back pain. You can take the guest room."

"You're moving your mistress into our bed?"

"She's carrying my heir, Serra!" he shouted, the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. "Something you couldn't do."

He pointed at me. "If you could have given me a child, I wouldn't have needed someone else! Don't be so selfish that I can never be a father just because of you!"

The words hit me like bullets; they passed right through, leaving a cold, hollow space behind.

He knew exactly why I couldn't bear children.

He knew it was because I'd taken shrapnel for him five years ago.

To save him. The shrapnel that tore through my uterus.

"I took three bullets for you," I said quietly, the memory a dull ache in my abdomen.

Back then, Dante wasn't the crime lord yet. We were caught in an ambush. I shielded him, took several shots, one of them hitting my lower abdomen, leaving me unable to have children.

I knew he wanted kids, so I tried to call off the wedding.

He refused without a second thought.

He said I mattered more to him than any child ever could.

And now, he was calling me selfish.

"And you lived," he countered. "Don't play the victim. You were born for this life. Camilla's different... she's delicate. She's pure."

A beat of silence, then he added, "What I mean is, you could totally think of me and Camilla's kid as our own. If you want, we'll be his parents together."

I shook my head, decisive. "I don't want that."

Dante's patience evaporated completely. "Serra, don't think I'll endlessly tolerate your bad temper just because I love you."

"I said, you'll always be my wife. You have to learn to accept Camilla."

"She'll stay in the master bedroom until the baby comes. You move to the guest room for now."

He turned his back and followed Camilla upstairs.

I stood there for a long time, frozen in the dead silence of the kitchen.

Later, my throat dry, I went to the fridge for water.

Camilla was just standing there, leaning against the counter, eating an apple.

She smiled when she saw me, her lips parting slowly over her teeth.

"He's so happy about the baby," she said, chewing, unconcerned. "Too bad about your brother. But maybe it's for the best. He was always a loser, wasn't he?"

The sanity in my brain evaporated.

My hand moved, a blur.

I slapped her.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the kitchen.

Camilla gasped, clutching her cheek. Shock flickered in her eyes, then was replaced by malice.

Then, her gaze dropped.

She saw the edge of fresh bandages peeking from my waistband, the aftermath of the recent ambush.

She reached out and jammed her fingers directly into my wound.

Pain exploded behind my eyes, turning the world white.

I felt a hot, tearing pull as the stitches gave way.

I crumpled to the floor, my lungs refusing to work, my mouth open in a soundless scream.

"Dante!" she shrieked, fake tears instantly welling up and spilling down her face. "She hit me! She's trying to hurt the baby!"

Dante stormed into the room.

He saw Camilla crying, playing the victim to perfection.

He saw me curled on the floor, fetal, clutching my bleeding stomach.

He didn't look at my wound. He didn't even blink.

He stepped over me like I was a stain on the floor and went straight to her.

"Get out of my sight, Serra," he snarled, holding Camilla. "If you touch her again, I'll forget you ever existed."

I coughed, a metallic taste flooding my mouth.

Blood spattered on the pristine white tile.

"You already have," I whispered.

The only sounds at dinner were the scrape of forks against china and the wet sounds of Camilla chewing.

I sat at the far end of the table, a piece of furniture hidden in the shadows.

A dull, rhythmic fire burned in my side, and I could feel the slow, warm seep of blood into the crude bandage I'd applied myself.

Dante had given the last medical kit to Camilla for a tiny knife cut.

Now, he was cutting her steak for her.

He forked up small pieces and fed them to her.

"Open up," he murmured, his eyes soft.

She took a bite, her gaze sliding past his shoulder to land on me.

She chewed slowly, a smug smile playing on her lips.

Then, with her manicured hand, she pointed at mine.

"That ring is beautiful," she said.

It was my grandmother's ring.

An emerald set in antique gold, the band worn thin by the hands of the women in my family.

Dante had slipped it on my finger the night we'd exchanged vows in the ruins of that little church.

"It's a family heirloom," I said, my other hand closing over it like a shell.

Dante stopped chewing.

He looked at the ring.

Then he looked at Camilla's bare finger.

"You deserve the best, baby," he said to her.

He stood up.

The legs of his chair scraped the floor as he moved toward me.

A fresh wave of pain lanced through my injured side.

"Give me the ring," he said.

"No," I said, my voice dry, scraped raw. "It's mine. It was my grandmother's."

"I'm the Don," he said, his voice dropping, turning cold. "Everything in this house is mine. Including you. Including that ring."

He loomed over me.

I curled my fingers into a fist.

He grabbed my wrist.

His hand was a manacle of bone and sinew.

With slow, methodical force, he pried my fingers open one by one, a display of absolute power.

I didn't fight him physically. I couldn't. I was too weak from blood loss, too weak from protecting him.

It was laughable. I was weak from protecting him.

He pulled the ring from my finger. A cold wind seemed to blow straight into the hollow left in my chest.

A pale, naked band of skin remained where the ring had rested for ten years.

He walked back to Camilla.

He slid it onto her finger.

It was too big, hanging loose on her knuckle.

"We'll get it sized tomorrow," he promised her.

I stood up.

My chair scraped back, a harsh sound in the silence.

I left the dining room without looking back.

I went straight to the guest room.

I pulled my travel bag from under the bed.

I didn't pack clothes.

I didn't pack the jewelry he'd given me.

I packed my knives.

I packed my passport.

I packed the photo of my brother.

The door creaked open behind me.

Camilla stood there.

She twisted the ring on her finger, making the emerald flash in the dim light.

"You know," she said, leaning against the doorframe, "you're just asking for trouble. Thinking you're his wife. It's pathetic."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

She tossed it onto the bed.

"He kept this in the safe. Thought you should see."

I unfolded it.

It was our marriage license.

The document we'd signed ten years ago.

My eyes traveled down the page to the blank space where the state seal should have been stamped.

"Never filed," Camilla said, her laugh a light, tinkling thing. "He never sent it to the state, or the church. You've always been just his mistress, Serra. Just like me."

She winked.

"Except I'm the one with the ring."

She turned and left.

I looked at the paper in my hand.

I didn't cry.

I didn't scream.

I felt a small click deep in my chest.

Like a lock tumbling into place.

I was never a Moretti.

I never had been.

Which meant I didn't need his permission to leave.

And I was leaving. Now.

Dante POV

I woke up reaching for her.

My hand brushed silk sheets, found warm skin.

Camilla.

She mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep and rolled over, taking the covers with her, cocooning herself.

I blinked at the ceiling, trying to clear the fog from my mind.

For a sleep-fogged moment, I'd expected the sharp, comforting scent of gunpowder and vanilla.

Serra's scent.

But the room was thick with the cloying perfume of roses, a sweet, chemical smell that clung to my sinuses.

I sat up, rubbing my face with my hands, a knot of unease forming in my gut.

There was a noise I usually heard at this hour. The low hum of the coffee grinder. The hiss of the gas stove. Her morning ritual, quiet and methodical.

But the house was silent.

A heavy, absolute silence.

"Camilla," I nudged her shoulder, maybe harder than necessary. "Wake up. I'm hungry."

She groaned, burrowing her face deeper into the pillow. "Get the maid to do it."

"We don't have a maid on Sundays. You know that."

"Then tell Serra," she mumbled, her voice muffled, dismissive. "Let me sleep."

My jaw tightened, the muscle twitching.

I kicked the covers off my legs, pulled on my pants, and stepped into the hallway where the silence pressed down on me like a physical weight.

Something felt wrong.

I walked down the hall toward the guest room.

I was going to tell Serra to make the eggs. That was the plan.

Maybe... maybe I'd ask her how she was doing.

The memory of yesterday flashed through my mind. I'd been harsh.

If the kitchen was silent, maybe she was hurting more than she let on. I should make sure she wasn't actually dying.

I pushed the door open without knocking.

"Serra, get up--"

The words died in my throat.

The room was immaculate.

The bed was made, empty, the mattress a stark white rectangle in the dim light.

I stepped inside, my heart giving a painful lurch.

The closet door was open.

Empty.

I turned to the dresser. The top was bare.

No brush, no gun oil, no tactical vest draped over a chair.

I moved further into the room, my footsteps loud on the hardwood floor.

The air was cold. Lifeless.

Like no one had lived here for years.

I checked the bathroom.

Empty.

I yanked open the drawers.

Empty.

A cold, constricting feeling wrapped around my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.

I turned and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

I burst into the study and went straight to the gun safe.

Her Glock was gone.

Her knives were gone.

Every trace of her was gone.

"Serra!" I yelled.

My voice echoed through the cavernous hall, bounced off the walls.

Only my own voice answered.

I sprinted to the security room, my fingers fumbling clumsily for the control panel.

I scrolled back through the footage.

She must have hidden, she wouldn't leave me, she wouldn't.