Dante appeared from the shadows of the garden just as the ripples on the water were fading into stillness. He looked from Sofia's bare finger to me, his expression curdling into something dark and volatile.

"Where is the ring?" he demanded.

Sofia let out a dramatic gasp, covering her mouth with a trembling hand. "Oh, Dante! I was showing it to Elena, and she... she slapped my hand! She said a murderer deserves it more than I do!"

It was a lie so clumsy, so theatrically fragile, that it should have fallen apart under the slightest scrutiny. But Dante turned his gaze on me, and I saw the monster behind his eyes stir from its slumber. He didn't care about the truth. He only wanted a reason to punish me.

"Is that true?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

I looked at the black water. The ring was worth thousands. If I found it, maybe I could sell it. Maybe I could leave sooner.

"It fell," I said simply.

"You threw it," he corrected, stepping closer until his chest brushed mine, looming over me like a storm front. "You jealous, spiteful creature. That ring is worth more than your life."

He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "Get it back."

"The water is freezing, Dante," I whispered.

"I don't care if it burns your skin off. Find it."

Then, he shoved me.

I stumbled backward, my heels catching in the yielding mud, and fell into the lake. The cold was a physical blow, a violent shock that punched the air from my lungs and sent needles of pain shooting through my limbs. The water was murky, opaque, and smelled of ancient decay.

I gasped, surfacing, my teeth chattering instantly. Dante stood on the bank, his arm around Sofia, watching me struggle with cold indifference.

"Don't come out until you have it," he ordered.

He turned and walked away, taking the warmth of the world with him.

I searched for hours. My hands went numb, then painful, then numb again. I dove repeatedly into the silt, my fingers clawing through the sludge blindly. Sometime near dawn, my fingers brushed against cold metal. I clutched the ring, my body shaking so violently I could barely stand.

I crawled onto the bank, coughing up lake water. I left the ring on the patio table and collapsed in the servant's quarters, darkness taking me before I hit the floor.

Two days later, the explosion happened.

I was in the kitchen, scouring pots, when the ground shook beneath my feet. A deafening boom shattered the windows, sending glass flying like shrapnel. The alarm wailed. Fire.

I ran outside. The east wing of the estate—the master suite—was engulfed in flames. Soldiers were running, shouting, but the heat was pushing them back.

"Dante!" I screamed.

"He's inside!" someone yelled over the roar. "The roof collapsed!"

I didn't think. I didn't breathe. I grabbed a wet tablecloth from a banquet cart, threw it over my head, and ran into the inferno.

The heat was a physical wall, trying to force me back. The smoke stung my eyes, blinding me with tears. I knew this house better than my own veins. I navigated by memory, crawling low beneath the billowing smoke.

"Dante!"

I found him in the hallway. He was unconscious, a heavy beam pinning his leg. The fire roared around us like a living, ravenous beast. I shoved the beam with every ounce of strength I had left. My muscles screamed in protest. The cancer pain in my gut was nothing compared to the absolute terror of losing him.

I dragged him. Inch by inch. The smoke was suffocating, filling my lungs with ash.

A piece of the ceiling gave way above me. I threw my body over his head to shield him. A burning timber struck my back.

I screamed, the smell of searing flesh filling my nose. My skin sizzled. The pain was white-hot, blinding, absolute. But I didn't let go. I hauled him through the flames, out onto the balcony, and heaved us both over the railing to the soft grass below.

I rolled away from him, gasping, my back on fire.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Through the haze of pain, I saw Sofia running across the lawn, her hair perfectly styled, untouched by the chaos. She saw Dante stirring. She saw me, burned and broken in the shadows.

She threw herself onto Dante's chest just as his eyes fluttered open.

"Oh, my God, Dante! I've got you! I pulled you out!"

I lay in the darkness, clutching the grass to keep from screaming. He looked up at her, coughing, his eyes hazy and confused.

"Sofia?" he rasped.

"I saved you, baby," she sobbed, her performance flawless. "I saved you."

I dragged myself backward into the bushes, hiding my burns, hiding my truth. If he knew I saved him, he would feel indebted. He would hate himself for owing his life to his mother's killer.

It was better this way. Let him love the hero. Let me be the coward who ran.

I sat on the cold linoleum of my dilapidated apartment, contorting my body in a desperate attempt to bandage my own back.

The burns were a mottled landscape of raw flesh, blistering and weeping serum. I couldn't reach the worst of it.

With a trembling hand, I poured cheap vodka over the wounds and bit down hard on a folded towel, stifling the scream that clawed at my throat.

The door didn't just open; it exploded inward.

The lock splintered with a sharp crack. Dante stood in the frame, his chest heaving, his face smeared with soot and unadulterated rage. He looked wild, feral.

He strode in, kicking aside a pile of laundry without breaking stride. He saw the vodka bottle. He saw the burn ointment. Then, his gaze landed on my back.

He froze.

For a second, the monster's mask slipped. His eyes widened, pupils dilating until they were black pools, taking in the raw, mangled skin across my shoulder blades.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice shaking with a tremor I hadn't heard before.

I pulled my shirt up quickly, hissing as the fabric stuck to the oozing wounds.

"It's nothing," I said, turning to face him.

"Don't lie to me, Elena! Where did you get those burns?"

I leaned against the counter, forcing a smirk onto my face. It was the only weapon I had left against his scrutiny.

"Prison fight," I lied, my voice dripping with false nonchalance. "A girl in the showers didn't like the way I looked at her. Or maybe it was from a lover. I forget. It happens when you're popular."

His jaw clenched so hard I thought a tooth might crack. "A lover?"

I shrugged, ignoring the tearing pain in my skin. "You think you're the only one who gets to have fun, Dante? Prison gets lonely."

It was the cruelest thing I could say. I was painting myself as a whore to disgust him, to make sure he never looked close enough to see the truth—that I had walked through fire for him.

He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed my throat. His hand was large, warm, and calloused. He squeezed, cutting off my air with terrifying precision.

"You disgust me," he snarled, his face inches from mine. "I thought... for a second, I thought you were in the fire. I thought you pulled me out."

I laughed, a choked, raspy sound against his palm.

"Me? Risk my life for you? After everything you've done to me? I ran, Dante. I saw the fire and I ran. I only care about myself. Just like I only cared about myself when I killed your mother."

His grip tightened. I saw the shards of heartbreak fracture his anger. He wanted me to be innocent. But I wouldn't let him.

"I hate you," he whispered against my lips, the words feeling like a curse.

"Good," I wheezed.

He released me, shoving me back against the counter. I slid down, gasping for air as oxygen rushed back into my burning lungs. He looked at me one last time, with absolute revulsion, and stormed out.

The next day, Sofia called. She needed a driver.

I arrived at the estate in my rusted sedan. She was waiting at the end of the long driveway. Dante was standing on the porch, watching like a sentinel.

Sofia walked toward the car. As I put it in gear to pull forward, she suddenly threw herself onto the hood.

She screamed—a piercing, theatrical shriek—and rolled onto the gravel in a heap.

From the porch, Dante roared.

It was a sound of pure, animalistic trauma. To him, it must have looked like history repeating itself—the woman he loved, struck down by a vehicle, just like his mother. The flashback must have seized him entirely.

He didn't run to her. He ran to his SUV.

He revved the engine, the armored vehicle roaring like a tank. I watched in the rearview mirror as he barreled toward me. He wasn't Dante anymore. He was an executioner.

I didn't try to move. I gripped the steering wheel and closed my eyes.

The impact was like a bomb going off.

Metal screamed. Glass exploded inward in a glittering shower. My car folded like paper against the force of his rage. The airbag deployed, punching me in the face, but not before I felt my ribs snap with a sickening crunch. The car spun and slammed into a tree.

Silence followed.

I hung in the wreckage, blood dripping into my eyes. Through the shattered windshield, I saw Dante sitting in his SUV, staring at me, his chest heaving.

He didn't look horrified.

He looked satisfied.

I woke up in a hospital room that reeked of antiseptic and artificial lemon.

My ribs were taped tight against my chest. My head throbbed with the dull, heavy ache of a concussion.

The doctor told me I was lucky to be alive, but he didn't know about the cancer quietly rotting my pancreas, so his definition of luck was severely skewed.

Dante never came.

I was discharged three days later. The moment I stepped out of the hospital doors, Matteo was waiting by the curb.

"The Boss wants you at the estate," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Wedding preparations."

Of course.

I was put to work immediately.

I had to address the invitations. Hundreds of cream-colored envelopes, my pen carving the names of the people who would celebrate the union of Dante and Sofia.

My hand cramped, locking into a claw, but I didn't stop.

Then came the anniversary.

It was five years to the day since Lucrezia died. The family gathered at the private cemetery on the estate grounds.

I was ordered to attend, to stand at the back like a spectre—a living reminder of what happens to traitors.

It was raining. A cold, gray drizzle that soaked through my thin coat and settled into my bones.

Dante stood at the front, holding a black umbrella over Don Salvatore. The old Don looked frail, leaning heavily on a cane topped with a silver wolf's head.

Sofia stood next to them, dabbing at dry eyes with a lace handkerchief.

When the priest finished, the family began to place roses on the grave. I waited until everyone had retreated to the cars—or so I thought.

I approached the tombstone.

*Lucrezia Vitiello. Beloved Mother and Wife.*

I had no flower. Instead, I placed a small, smooth stone on the marble.

"I kept your secret," I whispered to the cold earth. "I kept them safe."

"You dare?"

The voice was a thunderclap.

I turned. Don Salvatore had returned. He stood ten feet away, shaking with a rage that seemed too big for his withered frame. Dante was behind him, his face an unreadable mask.

"You dare touch her grave?" Salvatore screamed. "You murderer! You poison!"

He lunged at me. He was old, but his grief gave him a terrible strength. He swung the heavy cane.

I didn't dodge. I deserved this. Not for killing her, but for leaving her son alone in this cruel world.

The silver wolf's head struck my temple.

Pain exploded in my skull. I fell to the muddy grass, warm blood instantly blinding my left eye.

"Father!" Dante shouted, stepping forward.

"No!" Salvatore yelled, raising the cane again. "She killed my Lucrezia! She took my light!"

He struck me again, on the shoulder, right over the old burns. I cried out, curling into a ball in the mud.

*Let him,* I thought. *Let him kill me. It would be faster than the cancer.*

Dante caught his father's arm before the third blow could land.

"Enough," Dante said. His voice was tight, strained. "Not here. Not in front of Mother."

Salvatore spat on me.

I lay in the mud, my body mixing with the rain and the blood. I looked up at Dante.

He was looking at his father with concern, checking the old man's heart rate. He didn't look at me.

"Get her out of here," Salvatore wheezed. "Before I finish it."

Dante looked down at me then.

For a second, I saw something flicker in his eyes. Guilt? Regret?

No. It was just disgust.

"Go, Elena," he said coldly. "Before I let him kill you."

I dragged myself up, using a tombstone for support.

I limped away into the rain, leaving a trail of blood on the pristine grass, walking toward a death that couldn't come fast enough.