Dante Moretti POV

My boot slammed against the wood as I kicked open the door to Isabella’s room, my gun already raised and steady.

But the room was full of people.

Isabella was sitting up in bed, lounging against the headboard and holding a glass of champagne. Three of her friends were laughing at some joke I hadn't heard.

There were no thugs. There was no danger.

The music cut out abruptly when they saw the weapon. Her friends turned ghost white.

Isabella looked at me, her eyes bright with a manic sort of glee. "Dante! You saved me!"

I lowered the gun, my grip tightening on the handle until my knuckles cracked. "Where are the men? The threat?"

"Oh, they ran away when they heard you were coming," she said, waving a hand dismissively as if swatting away a fly. "Come, have a drink. We’re celebrating my survival."

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

She wasn't scared. She was bored. She had used a Code Red—a signal reserved for life or death—to get me back in the room simply because she wanted an audience.

"Get out," I said to her friends.

They didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled past me like rats fleeing a sinking ship, avoiding eye contact as they squeezed through the door.

Isabella pouted, swirling the liquid in her glass. "You’re ruining the vibe, Dante."

"You lied," I said. My voice was dangerously calm, a quiet before the storm.

"I needed you," she said, reaching for me with a pouty entitlement. "Does it matter how I got you here?"

She tried to kiss me again.

I pushed her away. Hard. She stumbled back onto the pillows, champagne sloshing over the rim of her glass.

"Don't touch me," I said, my voice dripping with disgust.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, vibrating against my thigh. It was Alfredo again.

"What?" I snapped, answering without checking the screen.

"Sir," the butler’s voice was trembling. "You need to come back to the study. Now."

"I’m busy, Alfredo."

"Sir, it’s... it’s about the date. And the book."

"What book?"

"The black ledger. And the papers. Sir... today was the anniversary."

"Anniversary of what? The wedding?" I was confused. Our anniversary was months ago.

"No, sir. The Consigliere’s death. And... the clinic just called."

"The clinic?"

"Sir, please come home."

The dread started in my toes and worked its way up, freezing my blood vein by vein.

I looked at Isabella. She was checking her reflection in her compact mirror, already over my rejection, humming a tune to herself.

I turned around and ran.

I drove like a madman. I ran red lights, tires screeching across the asphalt. I nearly clipped a bus, ignoring the blare of horns in my wake.

I burst into my study, breath heaving in my chest.

Alfredo was standing by the desk, his face pale. He stepped back as I entered, giving me space to see the wreckage.

There, on the mahogany surface, sat a thick black notebook and a stack of legal documents.

I recognized the documents immediately. Divorce papers. Signed with a flourish. *Elara Rossi.* Not Moretti. Rossi.

I reached for the notebook. It looked worn. Used. The spine was cracked from frequent opening.

I opened it.

It was a list. A scorecard.

*Forgot birthday - Minus 1.*

*Called her name in sleep - Minus 5.*

*Left me at the gala - Minus 5.*

Page after page. Years of my sins, cataloged in neat, architectural handwriting.

I flipped to the end. The last entry. The ink was jagged, as if written with a shaking hand, the pen pressed hard enough to tear the paper.

*For Isabella, he sacrificed our child. Minus 5 points.*

*Score: 0.*

I stared at the words. *Sacrificed our child.*

My knees gave out. I hit the floor hard, clutching the book to my chest like it was the only thing anchoring me to the earth.

I couldn't breathe. The air in the room had vanished, sucked into a vacuum of my own making.

I killed him. Or her.

I ordered the blood for Isabella. For a bruised knee. And I let my wife bleed out.

I looked up at the empty chair where she used to sit, imagining her silhouette against the window.

"Elara," I whispered.

But the house didn't answer. The silence was absolute. It was the sound of a kingdom that had lost its queen.

Dante Moretti POV

I left Isabella at her apartment door without a kiss, without a single word.

Her voice chased me down the hallway, shrill and demanding, clawing for a promise of my return. But the sound was drowned out by the roar of blood rushing in my ears.

I climbed into my car. The engine roared to life, a beast roused from slumber, but I didn't know where to steer it.

I drove.

I navigated past the gleaming high-rises where I laundered the Family's dirty money. I drove past the sprawling docks where my shipments came in. None of it mattered. The city I owned felt like a gilded cage.

My hands turned the wheel instinctively, bypassing the main avenues and guiding me to a small, unassuming street in the Old District.

I idled in front of a bakery: *The Gingerbread House.*

Elara loved this place. I knew it only because I saw the charges on her credit card statements every month. I had never asked her about it. I had never stepped foot inside.

Until now.

I got out. The bell chimed softly as I pushed the door open. The smell of ginger and molasses hit me instantly—a warm, spicy scent that I suddenly realized clung to Elara’s hair sometimes.

"We're closing, sir," the old woman behind the counter said, wiping her hands on her apron.

"I need a box," I rasped, my voice sounding rough, like gravel. "The soft ginger cookies. The ones with the lemon glaze."

She peered at me, her eyes narrowing behind her spectacles. "For the lady with the sad eyes? We haven't seen her in weeks."

*The lady with the sad eyes.*

I bought the box. It felt heavy in my hand, heavier than it should have been, like a brick of lead.

I got back in the car and drove to a florist. I bought two dozen Pink Ginger Lilies.

The memory of our anniversary clawed at my throat. I remembered handing Elara the bouquet of deep red roses—flowers explicitly ordered for Isabella—and the way her face had gone blank. Not angry. Just blank. Like a light switch flickering off in an empty room.

I drove home.

The estate loomed against the night sky, a dark monolith. The windows were black eyes staring back at me, accusing.

I stepped inside. The silence was a physical weight. It pressed against my eardrums, suffocating.

I went to the master bedroom. It smelled of lemon polish and stale air. Her scent—that subtle, comforting mix of vanilla and drafting paper—was fading.

The nightstand was bare. The wedding photo that had sat there for three years was gone. A square of clean, dust-free paint marked where it used to be.

I yanked open the drawer. Empty.

No. Not empty.

A single, crumpled sheet of paper lay forgotten in the back corner.

I pulled it out, smoothing the wrinkles. It was a medical report from the Family Clinic. The date was two days ago.

*Patient: Elara Moretti.*

*Diagnosis: Spontaneous Abortion / Hemorrhage secondary to physical trauma.*

*Notes: Critical blood transfusion delayed due to supply reallocation per Priority Order #4491.*

I stared at the number.

#4491.

My authorization code.

The memory slammed into me, a physical blow to the gut. The phone call. The doctor’s hesitant, trembling voice. *"Sir, we have limited stock of O-negative."*

And my own voice, cold and dismissive. *"Keep it for Isabella. Just in case."*

My knees hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud.

I read the line again. *Spontaneous Abortion.*

I hadn't just lost a wife.

I had killed my own child.