He didn't die.

Of course he didn't.

Bennett Vitale was far too stubborn to succumb to death, and certainly too angry to let the devil claim him just yet.

He returned a week later, not just as a survivor, but as a myth.

The papers were already calling him the "Bloodied Underboss."

He had taken three bullets to the chest and still managed to drive a knife through the Russo Capo's throat.

In one night, he had secured the ports.

He had secured the family legacy.

And, most importantly to him, he had secured Aria.

I heard the whispered stories from the maids as they dusted the hallways.

They spoke of how he had crawled, bleeding out, fueled by sheer will just to ensure Aria was moved to a safe house in the Hamptons.

How he had refused life-saving surgery until he heard her voice on the phone.

While the world celebrated his immortality, I sat in the penthouse, French audio lessons playing through my noise-canceling headphones.

Je voudrais un billet pour Paris, s'il vous plaît.

I repeated the words until the syllables tasted like freedom.

I packed my life into two modest suitcases.

Not the couture he had bought me.

Not the heavy jewels that felt like shackles.

Just my books, my sketches, and the few pieces of clothing I had purchased with my own money before I became Mrs. Vitale.

When Bennett finally came home, it was the night of the Victory Dinner.

He walked in, limping heavily, a polished cane in his hand.

He looked rugged.

Dangerous.

The sterile white bandages peeking out from his collar only added to the dark allure that seemed to make women weak in the knees.

Aria was with him, of course.

She was beaming, clutching his good arm as if she were the battery source of his power.

"Kelsey," Bennett said.

He sounded exhausted.

He sounded like a man expecting a dutiful welcome home kiss.

I stood by the stairs, my face a carefully constructed mask.

"You're alive," I stated flatly.

"Is that all?" He frowned, wincing as he shifted his weight on the cane. "I bought you something."

He signaled to an enforcer, who hauled a wooden crate into the foyer.

They pried it open with a groan of timber.

It was a statue.

A marble angel, likely looted from a villa in Tuscany during his raids.

"For the gallery," he said, gesturing vaguely. "To replace the one that broke."

He was trying to buy forgiveness with stolen art.

He was trying to patch a bullet hole with a band-aid.

"Thank you," I said. "Put it in the hall."

Bennett looked annoyed at my lack of enthusiasm. "I almost died, Kelsey. A little warmth wouldn't kill you."

"I'm not feeling well," I replied.

It was the excuse I had used for months.

Usually, he ignored it.

"Still?" He rolled his eyes, his patience thinning. "You need to see a doctor. You're always sick lately."

He didn't ask what was wrong.

He didn't cross the room to touch my forehead or check for a fever.

Instead, he turned to Aria. "Help me with my tie. My shoulder is stiff."

Aria smirked at me over his shoulder as she reached up, her fingers deft and intimate against the column of his neck.

"I'll take care of you, Bennett," she cooed, her voice dripping with syrup. "Since your wife is evidently too fragile."

I watched them.

I watched the way he leaned into her touch, seeking comfort I no longer had to give.

I watched the way he completely forgot I was even in the room.

"I'm going to bed," I lied.

"Fine," Bennett said, not bothering to look back. "We have the dinner to get to. Don't wait up."

I went upstairs.

I waited until I heard the heavy thud of the front door closing.

I waited until the purr of the limousine engine faded down the street.

Then, I called a car.

I took my two suitcases.

I walked out of the penthouse that had been my gilded cage for four long years.

The doorman looked at the luggage, then up at me, confusion knitting his brow.

"Going on a trip, Mrs. Vitale?"

"Yes," I said, stepping out into the cool, biting night air. "A very long one."

I didn't leave a note.

Notes were for people who expected to be found.

Paris was a study in charcoal and rain, but it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I rented a small apartment in the Marais.

I walked by the Seine.

I drank coffee that finally didn't taste like ashes.

For three weeks, I was just Kelsey.

And then, he found me.

I shouldn't have been surprised.

You don't just walk away from the Underboss.

I was coming back from the bakery, a baguette under my arm, when I saw him standing at my building's entrance.

He held a massive bouquet of white roses.

He looked violently out of place, his sharp Italian suit cutting a stark silhouette against the worn stone of the Parisian street.

"Kelsey," he said.

He looked relieved.

He looked like he thought this was the climax of a romantic movie.

"How did you find me?" I asked, not moving to take the flowers.

"I have resources," he said. "Why did you run? I was worried sick."

"Were you?"

"Of course. You're my wife." He stepped closer. "I know I've been... distracted. The business with the Russos took everything out of me. But I'm here now. I came to bring you home."

"I am home," I said.

He laughed, a dismissive sound. "This isn't home. This is a shoebox. Come on. I have a surprise for you."

He grabbed my hand.

I let him lead me.

I wanted to see how far the delusion went.

He took me to the river.

There was a private boat waiting at the quay.

It was decked out in lights and flowers.

Champagne on ice.

Violinists.

It was excessive.

It was Bennett.

"I want to start over," he said, pouring two glasses. "Just us. No business. No family. Just us."

He sounded sincere.

For a second, just a split second, my heart cracked.

Maybe he did care.

Maybe the near-death experience had changed him.

And then, the cabin door opened.

Aria stepped out.

She was wearing a white dress that looked aggressively bridal.

She held a glass of champagne.

"Surprise!" she squealed.

Bennett froze.

I looked at him.

He didn't look angry.

He looked... impressed.

"You planned this?" he asked her.

"Every detail," Aria said, walking over to wrap her arm around his waist. "I told you we needed to come get her. We need to be a family, Bennett. All of us. She needs to understand her place."

She looked at me with a sugary, venomous smile.

"I picked the flowers. I picked the boat. I even picked the music. Bennett just paid the bill."

My blood ran cold.

"You brought her?" I whispered to Bennett.

"She insisted," Bennett said, shrugging. "She wanted to make peace. She said you'd like the gesture."

"She planned your romantic gesture to win back your wife?"

"She has good taste," Bennett said defensively. "Kelsey, stop being difficult. Look at the effort she put in."

He was insane.

He was completely, utterly broken inside.

He didn't see a problem with his mistress planning his reconciliation with his wife.

"Look," Aria said, pulling a piece of paper from her clutch. "I even wrote your apology speech for you, Bennett. You always fumble with words."

She handed it to him.

He took it.

He smiled at her. "Thank you, baby. You always look out for me."

I felt the boat rock beneath my feet.

The violinists started playing a waltz.

Fireworks exploded over the Eiffel Tower.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Aria asked, leaning her head on Bennett's shoulder. "I did good."

"You did perfect," Bennett said.

He kissed the top of her head.

Then he looked at me, waiting for me to be grateful.

Waiting for me to fall in line.

I looked at the fireworks reflecting in the dark water.

I realized then that I wasn't fighting for my marriage anymore.

I was fighting for my sanity.

Desperate for air, I retreated toward the edge of the boat.

I needed to escape the suffocating stench of their shared madness, the cloying mix of expensive perfume and deceit.

"Where are you going?" Aria called out, her voice cutting through the humid night air. "We haven't cut the cake!"

She didn't just follow me; she pursued me.

Her fingers dug into my arm, spinning me around.

"Don't you dare walk away from this," she hissed, her face inches from mine, her breath smelling of champagne. "I spent days planning this. You will smile. You will thank Bennett. And you will accept that I am the one who pulls the strings."

She flaunted her left hand.

There was a ring on her finger.

A massive, ostentatious diamond.

"He proposed," she whispered, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Technically, we're engaged. Once he figures out how to divorce you without upsetting the Don, you're out. But until then, play nice."

She pulled out her phone.

"Look," she said, swiping to a photo.

It was Bennett and her in Italy.

Smiling.

Happy.

The backdrop was the very villa I had begged him to take me to for our honeymoon.

"He took me there last month," she said, twisting the knife. "He said it was too beautiful to waste on someone who doesn't appreciate art."

Before I could respond, the boat lurched violently beneath our feet.

The engine sputtered and let out a dying cough before silence fell.

The current of the Seine caught the vessel, spinning it sideways like a toy.

A barge was coming down the river, looming out of the darkness.

The captain shouted.

The impact was jarring, bone-rattling.

We were thrown sideways.

I grabbed the railing, my knuckles turning white.

Bennett was across the deck.

He saw us both stumble.

He saw Aria slide across the wet teak wood.

And in that split second, the truth was laid bare.

He didn't hesitate.

He didn't look at me.

He lunged for her, wrapping his body around hers, cushioning her from the impact as they hit the bench.

I was left exposed.

I was thrown into the metal stanchion.

My head cracked against the steel with a sickening thud.

Blackness swallowed me.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital room in Paris.

A soldier was standing by the door.

Not Bennett.

A soldier.

"Mrs. Vitale," he said, straightening up. "You're awake."

"Where is he?" I asked, my voice raspy and dry.

"Mr. Vitale is with Miss Diaz. She... she was shaken up. He took her back to the hotel to rest."

The words hit harder than the steel beam.

"I see."

"He sent me to get your things," the soldier said, shifting awkwardly on his feet. "He says you're causing too much trouble. He wants you to go back to New York. The Don will deal with you."

I sat up, fighting the nausea.

My head throbbed in rhythm with my heart.

"No," I said.

"Mrs. Vitale, please. Don't make this hard."

"I'm not going back."

I reached into my bag on the side table.

I pulled out the velvet box I had carried with me.

The wedding ring.

The earrings he gave me for my birthday.

The brooch that belonged to his grandmother.

I handed the pile of metal and stone to the soldier.

"Give these to him," I said, my hand steady despite the pain.

"Mrs. Vitale..."

"Tell him the debt is paid. Tell the Don I resign."

"You can't resign from the family."

"Watch me."

I stood up.

I was dizzy, but I was determined.

I signed the discharge papers against medical advice, ignoring the nurse's protests.

I walked out of the hospital and into the cold Paris night.

I went to the airport.

I bought a ticket to the furthest place I could find on the departure board that wasn't New York.

Oslo.

As the plane taxied down the runway, I looked out the window at the lights of Paris fading below.

I left my marriage in the Seine.

I left my fear in that hospital room.

I was bruised.

I was alone.

But for the first time in five years, the air in my lungs belonged only to me.