I had converted the east wing of the estate into a studio.

It used to be a storage area for Dante’s old gym equipment, a graveyard of rusted iron and leather. Now, it smelled of graphite, cedar shavings, and fresh paper.

I called Maria, my old architecture professor.

"I’m ready," I had told her on the phone, my voice trembling slightly. "I want to start my own firm. Small. Anonymous. But I need to work."

"It’s about time, Elara," she had replied, her tone fierce. "You were the best student I’ve had in twenty years. Don't let that talent rot in a mobster's kitchen."

That afternoon, I was hunched over a draft for a library renovation when the door opened.

It was our third anniversary.

Dante walked in. He was wearing a tuxedo, the black fabric absorbing the afternoon light. He looked devastatingly handsome, yet his eyes held their usual glazed indifference.

He looked around the room, taking in the drafting tables, the models, the pinned-up sketches.

"What is all this?" he asked.

"I’m working," I said, not looking up from my blueprint, grounding myself in the straight lines of the drawing. "I’m starting a firm."

He let out a short, dismissive breath. "A firm? Elara, we don't need the money. And it’s a security risk. You meeting clients? Being out in the open?"

"I’ll use a pseudonym," I said, my grip tightening on my pencil. "And I need this, Dante. I need something that is mine."

He walked over and tapped a finger on my blueprint, leaving a smudge. "It’s a cute hobby. But don't let it distract you from your actual duties."

My actual duties. Being seen and not heard. Warming his bed on the rare nights he came home.

"Is that why you’re here?" I asked, finally meeting his gaze. "To critique my hobby?"

"It’s our anniversary," he said. He checked his watch. "We have a reservation at Le Monde. 8:00 PM."

My heart did a traitorous little stutter. Le Monde was impossible to get into.

"You remembered," I said softly.

"My assistant remembered," he corrected flatly.

He pulled a velvet box from his pocket and placed it on the drafting table. Next to it, he laid a single long-stemmed pink rose.

"Happy anniversary," he muttered.

I reached for the box, a foolish spark of hope igniting in my chest.

Then, his phone buzzed.

He looked at the screen. His expression shifted instantly. The boredom vanished, replaced by sharp alertness.

"I have to take this," he said.

He walked to the window, turning his back to me. "Bella? Slow down. What’s wrong?"

I froze, my hand hovering over the velvet box.

"Okay," he said, his voice dropping to a soothing register I rarely heard. "Okay, I’m coming. Stay there."

He hung up and turned to me.

"Change of plans," he said. "We need to go."

"Go where?" I asked, my hand retracting. "Dinner?"

"We’re stopping by the grand opening of The Sapphire Room first," he said. "Isabella is managing it. She’s... having a crisis with the staff."

"Dante," I said, my voice tight. "It’s our anniversary."

"It will take twenty minutes," he snapped, already moving toward the door. "Get your coat."

We drove in silence.

The Sapphire Room was a high-end lounge, a front for the Family’s money laundering, but on the surface, it was all glitz and glamour.

We walked in. Isabella was standing near the bar, looking frantic in a silver dress that fit her like a second skin.

When she saw Dante, she didn't just smile. She beamed.

"You came!" she cried, rushing over. She linked her arm through his, pulling him close as if she owned the space he occupied. She glanced at me. "Oh. Hi, Elara. Thanks for lending him to me."

"He’s not a library book," I said.

Dante ignored me. "What’s the problem, Bella?"

"The band cancelled," she said, pouting. "And the flowers are all wrong. It’s a disaster."

"We’ll fix it," Dante said soothingly.

Then, he did something that stopped my heart.

He reached into his pocket. He pulled out the velvet box. The one he had put on my drafting table moments ago.

"Here," he said, handing it to Isabella. "For good luck on your opening night."

Isabella squealed. She opened the box. It was a diamond bracelet.

"Dante!" she gasped. "It’s beautiful."

She threw her arms around his neck.

He looked over her shoulder at me. He didn't look guilty. He looked practical. Like he had just solved a logistical problem using the nearest available asset.

"And the rose," Isabella said, seeing the flower in his other hand. "Pink. My favorite."

He handed her the rose too.

"Happy opening," he said.

I stood there in my anniversary dress, watching my husband give my anniversary gift to his mistress.

I wasn't the wife. I was the courier. I was just the transportation method he used to get the diamonds from the estate to her wrist.

I turned around and walked toward the bar.

*Minus fifteen.*

The restaurant for our "dinner" was actually just the VIP booth at The Sapphire Room.

Dante decided we should stay there since Isabella was feeling "stressed."

Isabella sat across from us, commanding the space. It wasn't an anniversary dinner. It was a business meeting disguised as a meal, with me playing the role of the third wheel.

"This place is exactly how I imagined it," Dante said, looking around the room with a rare warmth. "Do you remember you sketched this layout on a napkin five years ago?"

"You kept that napkin?" Isabella asked, her eyes wide.

"I keep everything," he said.

I took a sip of water. It tasted like ash in my mouth.

A waiter appeared at Dante’s elbow.

"We’ll have the Lobster Risotto, the truffle carpaccio, and the sea bass," Dante ordered smoothly. He didn't even look at the menu.

"Dante," Isabella said with a fake, playful pout. "Ask Elara what she wants. Maybe she doesn't like sea bass."

Dante shrugged, dismissive. "I don't know what she likes. She can speak for herself."

Three years. We had been married for three years.

I was deathly allergic to shellfish. The risotto had lobster stock. Even cross-contamination could shut down my throat.

"I’m not hungry," I said quietly.

"Suit yourself," Dante said.

"I’m going to the ladies' room." I stood up.

I needed to breathe. I needed to get away from the suffocating weight of their shared history, which hung over the table like a toxic fog.

I walked into the restroom. It was a collision of marble and gold—opulent and suffocatingly tacky.

The door opened behind me.

Isabella walked in.

She stood next to me at the sinks, checking her lipstick in the mirror.

"You look tired, Elara," she said.

"I’m fine," I said, scrubbing my hands.

"You know," she said, leaning closer to the mirror. "It’s kind of sad. You trying so hard."

"I’m his wife, Isabella."

She laughed. It was a cruel, sharp sound. "You’re a contract. You’re a handshake between two dead men. You think because you wear his ring, you have his soul? I own every breath he takes."

"Then why didn't he marry you?" I asked, turning to face her.

Her eyes narrowed. "Because he had to protect you. You’re the charity case. The Consigliere’s Bargain."

She smirked. "But don't worry. He comes to me when he needs to feel real."

I opened my mouth to respond, but a deep, groaning sound echoed from above.

The ceiling shook.

We both looked up.

The massive crystal chandelier above the main dining area—the one Dante had installed because Isabella wanted "grandeur"—gave a terrifying high-pitched screech of metal shearing.

It wasn't directly above us. But the structural support beam ran straight through the ceiling of the restroom.

The plaster cracked.

The chandelier in the main room crashed. The impact was like a bomb going off.

The shockwave blew out the wall of the restroom.

Debris rained down. A heavy chunk of plaster and steel support beam plummeted toward us.

I saw Dante in the doorway. He had run from the table the second the noise started.

He saw us both. We were standing three feet apart.

He had a split second. A single heartbeat.

He lunged.

He tackled Isabella, covering her body with his own, shielding her against the far wall.

He left me standing in the open.

The beam hit me.

Pain exploded in my side. Darkness swallowed me whole.

*

I woke up to the rhythmic beep of machines.

My side felt like it was on fire. My head was throbbing in time with my pulse.

I opened my eyes. White ceiling. Hospital.

I turned my head. Dante was bursting through the door. He looked frantic. His tuxedo was covered in dust and plaster.

"Elara!"

I looked at him. I felt a strange, cold clarity.

"I’m awake," I whispered.

"I didn't know," he panted, rushing to the bedside. "I didn't know you were hit. There was so much dust. I got Isabella out and..."

"And you realized the wife was missing later," I finished.

"Elara, don't," he said. "Are you okay? The doctor said you have three broken ribs and a concussion."

"I’m fine," I said.

I closed my eyes. I pictured the ledger in my mind.

*He chose.*

In the moment of life or death, instinct took over. He didn't think. He just acted. And his instinct was to save her.

"Minus ten," I whispered.

"What?" Dante asked, leaning closer. "What did you say?"

"I said minus ten," I said, opening my eyes to look at him dead on.

"Ten points away from freedom."

"What points?" he demanded. "You’re talking nonsense. You have a concussion."

"I have clarity, Dante," I said. "Crystal clear."

"Where were you?"

The nurse’s voice was sharp, cutting through the sterile air. She was adjusting my IV drip, her glare fixed firmly on Dante.

"I was... handling the situation," Dante said, shifting his weight. He looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. Here stood the great Don Moretti, being scolded by a middle-aged nurse in orthopedic shoes.

"Your wife was unconscious for two hours," the nurse snapped, checking the monitor with efficient, angry movements. "She woke up alone."

"I’m here now," Dante replied, his voice tight.

He reached for my hand. Instinctively, I pulled it away.

"Don't," I said.

"Elara," he warned, his tone dropping an octave into that familiar command. "Don't make a scene."

"Where is she?" I asked, ignoring his warning.

He stiffened, his jaw tightening. "Isabella is in the psychiatric wing. She’s... in shock. The crash traumatized her."

"She has a scratch on her elbow," I stated flatly, staring at the ceiling. "I have broken ribs."

"It’s not about physical injury," Dante argued, frustration leaking into his voice. "She’s fragile, Elara. She wasn't raised in this life like you were. She doesn't handle violence well."

"So you checked her into a suite?"

"I needed to make sure she was safe."

His phone buzzed against the bedside table.

He looked at it. He sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion.

"She’s panicking again," he said, reading the message. "The doctors can't calm her down."

He looked at me then. He was torn; I could see the conflict warring behind his eyes. But the tear wasn't equal. It was a ninety-ten split.

And I wasn't the ninety.

"Go," I said.

"I’ll come back," he promised, already stepping back. "I just need to settle her."

"Don't bother," I murmured.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then turned and walked out.

I waited exactly one minute.

I pushed the button to lower the bed rail. Taking a breath, I swung my legs over the side. The pain in my ribs was blinding, immediate—like a hot knife twisting deep in my torso. I gritted my teeth against a cry and forced myself to stand.

I grabbed the IV pole for support, my knuckles turning white.

I walked.

I shuffled down the corridor, moving like a shadow past the nurses' station. They were too swamped with a fresh trauma intake to notice one wandering patient.

I followed the sterile signs pointing to the Psychiatric Wing.

It was a nicer wing. Quieter. The air smelled less like antiseptic and more like lavender.

I found room 402. The blinds were partially open, slicing the room into strips of light and dark.

I stood there, leaning heavily on my IV pole, breathing through the agony radiating from my side.

Dante was sitting on the bed. Isabella was curled up in his lap, sobbing into his chest like a frightened child.

He was rocking her. He was stroking her hair. He was whispering things I couldn't hear, but I could read the movements of his lips.

*I’ve got you. I’m not leaving. You’re safe.*

A doctor was standing by the door, speaking in low tones. I moved slightly, wincing, so I could catch the words.

"She has an acute stress reaction," the doctor was explaining to Dante. "She needs an emotional anchor. Someone she trusts implicitly."

"I’m staying," Dante said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Prep the jet. As soon as she’s cleared, I’m taking her to the vineyard in Tuscany. She needs quiet."

The vineyard. *Project True North.*

He was taking her to the house he had designed for *our* retirement.

He pulled out his phone and made a call, his demeanor shifting instantly from protector to predator.

"Find out where her ex-husband is," Dante ordered into the phone, his voice cold and lethal. "If he came anywhere near that restaurant, if he had anything to do with her stress... handle it."

He hung up and kissed the top of Isabella’s head.

I watched them.

It wasn't that Dante was incapable of love. He loved fiercely. He loved with a protective, consuming violence that was terrifying to behold.

He just didn't love me.

I was the obligation. She was the obsession.

I caught my reflection in the glass of the window. Pale skin. Hospital gown. A bruised, swollen face.

I looked like a ghost.

And that’s exactly what I was to him. A ghost haunting his real life.

I turned the IV pole around.

The pain in my ribs was still there, sharp and biting, but the pain in my chest—the heavy, suffocating weight I had carried for three years—was gone.

The hope was dead. And with the death of hope came the birth of indifference.

I shuffled back to my room, each step a little lighter.

I reached for the imaginary pen in my mind.

*Minus ten.*

Forty-five points left.

But honestly? I didn't think I needed to wait for zero anymore. The math was becoming irrelevant. The equation was solved.

Dante Moretti + Elara Rossi = Nothing.