Aria POV

Luca held the line in silence for a long, stretching moment.

I could hear the distant, chaotic hum of a busy street on his end, a stark and brutal contrast to the tomb-like stillness of my bedroom.

"Explain," he finally demanded, his voice low.

"I am dead here, Luca," I whispered, gripping the phone. "If I stay, they will kill me. Or I will kill myself. I need to vanish."

I heard the metallic click of a lighter, followed by the hiss of a sharp exhale.

"The Reaper will tear this city down to the bricks if you go missing."

"He won't," I said, my gaze drifting to the wedding photo on the nightstand. The glass was spiderwebbed from where it had been thrown. "He has a replacement lined up. A new heir. I am just a loose end waiting to be cut."

I told him everything-the divorce papers, the sham marriage, the chemical glaze I saw in Dante's eyes.

"I need a crash," I said, my voice trembling. "Total destruction. A classic disposal on the route to the coast."

"Consider it done," Luca replied, his tone shifting to professional ice. "Be at the private strip in two hours. I have a safe house in Provence prepped for you."

I hung up. Provence. Endless fields of lavender. A place where the name Vitiello carried no weight, no blood.

I began to pack with frantic efficiency. No clothes, no jewelry. I took only cash and the fake passport Luca had forged for me years ago-a failsafe I had prayed never to use.

I was just zipping the lining of the suitcase shut when the door handle turned.

I shoved the bag under the bed just as the housekeeper, Maria, stepped inside. She looked pale, her hands wringing in her apron.

"The Don is asking for you, Donna Aria."

I nodded, composing myself. I checked my reflection in the mirror; I looked pale, ghostly. Fitting for a woman walking to her own funeral.

I walked out and descended the grand staircase. Dante was waiting in the foyer. Gia stood beside him, her hand resting on his forearm with a possessiveness that made my stomach turn.

The boy, Leo, was playing with a toy car on the cold marble floor.

Dante looked up. For a heartbeat, I saw the man I used to love fighting to surface through the haze-confused, in pain. Then the chemical glaze returned, swallowing him whole.

"There you are," he said. His voice was too loud, too manic.

I took the last few steps slowly. I smelled it immediately-her perfume. It was cloying, sweet, and heavy, clinging to his suit jacket like a second skin.

"Who are our guests?" I asked, keeping my face mask-like.

Dante blinked, as if genuinely surprised I had to ask.

"This is Gia. The new nanny. And this is Leo. I am taking him on as a ward. He needs a father figure."

Gia smirked. It was a small, sharp expression, like a blade slipping from a sheath.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Vitiello," she said, emphasizing the title she had already stolen.

Leo looked up from his car. He was ten years old, but his eyes held no childhood innocence.

"Hi, Mommy," he sneered.

The word was a calculated slap. Gia let out a small, delicate laugh.

"He is just playing," she cooed.

I felt the bile rise in my throat, burning. I turned to retreat upstairs, my hands trembling at my sides.

"Wait," Dante ordered. His tone shifted, becoming sharp and authoritative. "Leo made you lunch. To start off on the right foot."

Leo stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his knees. He ran into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a steaming bowl of tomato soup. He walked toward me, a strange, eager expression plastered on his face.

"Here," he said.

I reached out to take the bowl, intending to set it down on the nearest table and leave.

But the moment my fingers brushed the ceramic, Leo's expression twisted. He shoved the bowl forward with vicious force.

The boiling liquid splashed over my hand and wrist.

I gasped, the pain instantaneous and searing. The bowl shattered on the floor, the red soup looking like a splatter of arterial blood on the white marble.

Before I could even draw a breath, Leo threw himself backward onto the floor.

"She burned me!" he screamed, clutching his unblemished arm, his face contorted in fake agony. "She threw it at me!"

Aria POV

The double doors to the study crashed against the paneling. Dante rushed in, Gia close on his heels.

He didn't look at me. He didn't even glance at the red, blistering skin on my hand. He went straight to the boy writhing on the floor.

"Leo!" Dante roared, scooping the child into his arms.

"She did it on purpose!" Leo sobbed, burying his face in Dante's chest. "She said she hates me!"

Dante turned to me. His eyes were black pits, pupils blown wide. There was no recognition in them, no memory of the ten years we had spent together. There was only the drug-fueled rage of a protector defending his pack.

"What is wrong with you?" he spat.

I held my wrist, the skin peeling back in angry strips. "Dante, he dropped the tureen," I stammered. "He burned me."

"Liar!" Gia shrieked. She rushed to Dante's side, stroking Leo's hair. "She is jealous, Dante. She is jealous because she is broken. Because she cannot give you what I gave you."

Dante's gaze dropped to my stomach. The look of disgust on his face shattered whatever was left of my heart.

"You are a monster," he said, his voice low and venomous. "You attack a child because of your own failure?"

"My failure?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "You swore to protect me."

"I protect my family," Dante snarled. "Get out of my sight. If you touch him again, Aria, I will forget who you were to me."

He turned his back. He walked away, carrying the boy who was smirking into his shoulder. Gia followed, pausing at the doorway to look back at me.

She didn't say a word. She just smiled, a victory lap in silence.

I stood there frozen for a long time. The soup was drying tacky and stiff on my skin. The burn throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a distinct, rhythmic agony.

I walked to the kitchen sink. I ran cold water over my hand. I wrapped it in a towel. I did it all mechanically, like a robot programmed only for survival.

I remembered a time when a waiter had spilled wine on my dress. Dante had broken the man's fingers. Now, I was the enemy.

I went upstairs to my room. I sat on the edge of the bed we used to share.

An hour later, the door opened. Dante stood there. He looked exhausted, the manic energy fading into a chemical slump.

"I am sleeping in Leo's room tonight," he said. "He is traumatized."

I didn't look at him. I stared at the white bandage on my hand.

"Okay," I said.

He lingered. Maybe he expected a fight. Maybe deep down, the real Dante was screaming to get out. But the drugs were stronger.

"Good," he said.

He left.

I lay down in the dark. The walls of the estate were thick, but not thick enough.

I heard the door to the guest wing open. I heard Gia's voice, low and murmuring. I heard Dante's deep rumble.

And then I heard the rhythmic creak of the bedsprings. The sounds of my husband taking another woman in the house my father had built.

I didn't cry. Tears were for the living. My marriage was a corpse, and I was just waiting for the funeral.

Aria POV

The next morning, I found Dante in the kitchen. He was wearing an apron, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a whisk against a stainless-steel bowl filling the silence.

The domesticity of the scene was terrifying because it was so perfectly, violently normal. His eyes were bright. Too bright.

"Good morning, Cara," he said, his voice light, as if he hadn't verbally flayed me the night before.

I stood frozen in the doorway. My suitcase was still shoved under the bed upstairs. The plane was waiting.

"We are going out," he announced, not asking. "A family day. Gia needs things for the boy."

"I am not going," I said.

The whisking stopped instantly. He set the bowl down with a heavy, deliberate clatter.

He walked over to me, closing the distance in two strides, and gripped my chin. His fingers dug into my jaw, pressing against the bone until I tasted copper.

"You will go," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "We are a united front. You will show respect."

I got dressed. I put on a long-sleeved shirt to hide the burn.

The SUV was waiting in the driveway. Gia and Leo were already in the back seat. Dante opened the front passenger door for me, a mockery of chivalry.

We drove to the Magnificent Mile. Dante played music. Leo sang along. I stared out the window, watching the city blur, counting the minutes until I could escape.

Inside the luxury mall, Dante was a king. He threw money around like confetti, buying loyalty with every swipe of his black card. He bought Leo a new video game console. He bought Gia a floor-length fur coat.

He bought me a scarf.

Silk. Expensive. Impersonal.

We walked into the jewelry store. The manager rushed over, practically bowing to the Don.

Dante looked at the display case, his gaze sweeping over the gold and platinum until it locked on a necklace. It was a sapphire pendant surrounded by a halo of diamonds. It was deep blue, like the ocean at night, cold and bottomless.

"It is beautiful," I said, the words slipping out involuntarily. It was the kind of piece a Capo bought his Donna for a milestone anniversary.

Dante nodded. "Wrap it up," he told the manager.

He took the velvet box. He turned to me. For a split second, my heart stuttered. I thought he was going to apologize. I thought this was the peace offering, the bribe to keep me compliant.

Then, he turned past me.

"For you," he said, handing the box to Gia. "To match your eyes."

Gia's eyes were brown.

She squealed and threw her arms around him. The sales staff looked at the floor, embarrassed by the blatant cruelty. I stood there, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks, burning hotter than the wound on my arm. I was the wife, standing in the shadows of the mistress.

"I'm going to the car," I said, my voice hollow.

Dante didn't even look up. "Take the keys. We will be right behind you."

I walked out. The air in the parking garage was stale and cold, smelling of exhaust and damp concrete. I needed to breathe. I needed to run.

I heard them behind me. Gia's laughter echoed off the concrete walls, a sharp, grating sound.

I unlocked the SUV.

Suddenly, tires screeched. A white sports car came tearing around the corner, speeding the wrong way down the lane. It was moving fast, the engine roaring, aiming straight for the group.

Gia froze. She was directly in the path.

I was closer to the car. I was standing right next to the open door.

Dante didn't hesitate. He didn't look at me.

He lunged. He shoved me aside-hard.

It wasn't a push to save me. It was a shove to clear the way. I slammed into the side mirror of the SUV, the metal casing gouging into my hip, and fell to the pavement.

Dante threw his body over Gia and Leo, shielding them as the car swerved at the last second and sped off toward the exit.

Silence followed. Heavy and suffocating.

Dante scrambled up. He checked Gia. He checked Leo. He ran his hands over them, frantic, desperate.

"Are you hurt? Did he hit you? My God, Gia."

I was lying on the asphalt. My hip throbbed with a dull, sickening ache. My burned hand had scraped against the ground, reopening the wound, the bandage tearing away.

"Dante," I whispered.

He didn't turn. He was kissing Gia's forehead, murmuring comforts, checking her for scratches that weren't there.

I stood up. I limped backward.

He hadn't just chosen them. He had used me as an obstacle-human debris to be tossed aside-to save them.

I turned around and started walking toward the exit ramp.

I didn't look back. I didn't call the family doctor. I just walked.