The morning sun was an assault. It glared off the pristine drifts of snow, piercing my eyes like shards of glass.

I stepped out of the lobby of my apartment building, in want of fresh air.

I needed to feel something other than the lingering imprint of Dante's teeth on my neck.

The moment my boot hit the pavement, the world was rent by a volley of flashing lights.

Cameras. Dozens of them. They swarmed the entrance like vultures spotting a carcass.

I froze.

Usually, the guards kept them back. But this morning, the men were sluggish, their movements uncertain.

Maybe they had seen the news, too. Maybe they knew I was falling out of favor and therefore no longer worthy of their protection.

"Mrs. Cavallaro! Over here!"

"Is it true Dante spent the night with Sofia?"

"Are you getting a divorce?"

The questions were bullets. I pulled my coat tighter.

A young woman pushed her way to the front, brandishing a microphone like a weapon.

I recognized her at once. Jessica. Sofia's friend from university.

"Elena!" she called out. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the din. "How does it feel to be the third wheel in a true love story?"

The crowd quieted down. They wanted blood.

I looked at her. She was smiling—the cruel, triumphant arc of her mouth.

"Sofia says you trapped him," Jessica continued, advancing on me. "She says you used a contract to steal a man who belongs to her. Do you have any shame?"

I felt a familiar pressure in my sinuses.

Not now.

Please, not now.

I tried to step around her, to no avail; she blocked my path.

"Answer the question! Are you just holding on for the money? Is that why you look so haggard? Is the guilt eating you alive?" She shoved the microphone into my face. It struck my cheek.

The impact was light, but it was enough. The dam broke.

I felt the warmth before I saw it. A thick, hot liquid gushed from my nose. It dripped over my lips.

It splashed onto the microphone. It stained the snow on the collar of my white coat a stark, arterial red.

The crowd gasped. Camera shutters clicked furiously, capturing the spectacle of my ruin.

Jessica recoiled, looking at the blood on her equipment with disgust.

"Ew," she said, her own lip curling in revulsion. "That's disgusting. Stop acting for sympathy."

I reached into my pocket for a tissue. I didn't have one.

I used my gloved hand to wipe my face, which only served to smear the red across my pale skin.

I looked at Jessica. My vision was blurring at the edges.

"I'm not acting," I said. "I'm dying."

Jessica rolled her eyes.

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "That's the oldest trick in the book. You're pathetic."

"Gold digger."

"When he was poor, you dumped him. Now that he's rich, you married him."

I didn't argue. I didn't have the energy to convince her.

I just turned around and walked back into the building, leaving a trail of red drops on the marble floor.

By noon, the video was inescapable.

My phone vibrated against the tile, a relentless, buzzing indictment. I sat huddled on the floor of the bathroom, my gaze fixed upon it.

The title read: Mafia Wife Fakes Illness After Husband's Affair Exposed.

The comments were vicious, a venomous torrent that scrolled past too quickly to be read in full.

Look at her, she looks like a zombie.

She deserves it for trapping Dante.

Team Sofia.

Gold digger.

When he was poor, she dumped him. Now that he's rich, she married him.

Then, a notification popped up at the crest of the screen, arresting the feed.

A statement from the Outfit. From Dante.

My heart gave a painful thud against the cage of my ribs.

I clicked it, my fingers betraying a slight tremor.

It wasn't an apology. It wasn't a declaration of love.

It was a declaration not of affection, but of ownership.

Elena Vitiello is my wife. Anyone who harasses her answers to me. The press is barred from the premises. Trespassers will be dealt with.

That was it.

He didn't deny the affair. He didn't care about my health.

He just didn't want his property damaged by strangers.

I turned off the phone and let it fall, its clatter echoing on the tiles. I leaned my head against the cold porcelain of the bathtub, allowing the cold to leech the warmth from my skull.

My mind drifted back through the fog of my present misery.

Ten years ago.

The doctor's office was redolent of bleach and a lingering fear.

My mother was sitting on the exam table.

She was so thin, her frame as delicate as a bird's beneath the thin paper gown.

That year, she was diagnosed with a terminal illness. The doctor said the hereditary probability was very high.

Not only could I fall seriously ill at any time, but if I married and had children, they wouldn't be spared either.

"Mom," I had said, my own voice unsteady. "I'm going to tell Dante. He loves me. He'll help us."

My mother grabbed my hand. "No, Elena."

"Why?"

"Because your father knows," she whispered, her eyes wide with a primal terror.

"He knows you're seeing that soldier," she said. "He told me last night. If you stay with Dante, your father will kill him."

I felt the blood drain from my face, chilling me to the bone. "He wouldn't."

"He would. He wants you to marry a Made Man from New York. He needs the alliance far more than he values your happiness. He said if Dante comes near you again, he'll put a bullet in his head."

I started to cry, hot tears coursing down my cheeks. "Mom, I love him. And he loves me."

"Then save him," she said, her voice acquiring an edge of steel. She looked me square in the eye. "Break his heart, Elena. Make him hate you. It's the only way he'll stay away."

"It's the only way he'll live long enough to become something."

I remembered the look on Dante's face when I told him he was too poor for me, that his station was beneath my own.

I remembered the light dying in his eyes, extinguished as if by a sudden, violent gust. I remembered watching him walk away in the rain, his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of my calculated betrayal.

I had saved his life.

And in return, he was killing mine.

I had done my job too well. He had lived. He had become the King.

And now he was burying the girl who saved him, one shovel of dirt at a time.

I needed to go to Headquarters. Not for money. Not for Dante. I was going for my mother.

When she died, she had left me a small porcelain doll.

It was a Lucky Doll, a delicate antique from Sicily that she swore held the prayers of our ancestors.

Three years ago, on the day we were married, I had placed it on his desk when he wasn't looking—a silent, foolish wish for his safety.

I needed it back. I needed to hold it when the end finally came.

I walked into the high-rise, the air conditioning chilling the sweat on my skin.

The guards studied the polished marble floor as I passed, unable to meet my eyes.

They had seen the video. They knew I was broken.

I took the elevator up. When I reached his floor, I stepped out.

But Enzo was there, blocking the heavy oak doors.

"Mrs. Cavallaro," he said, his voice hesitant. "The Don is... occupied."

"I don't care, Enzo," I said, my voice barely a rasp. "Let me in."

He looked at me. He looked at the bruises under my eyes, the way my clothes hung off my skeletal frame. He touched his earpiece.

"Boss," he murmured. "She's here. She looks... bad."

A pause. "Let her in," Dante's voice crackled through the silence, cold and indifferent.

Enzo stepped aside. I pushed open the doors.

Dante was there. He was staring at his computer screen, his face bathed in its artificial glow.

On the monitor, a video played on a loop: me, bleeding, broken.

He looked up when I entered, his expression unreadable, a mask of stone.

"Elena," he said. His voice was tight, strained.

I didn't look at him. I walked straight to the shelf behind his desk where the doll had sat for three years.

I shoved aside leather-bound books. I knocked over framed photos.

Empty.

"Where is it?" I asked, my voice a thin, unsteady thread. I turned to face him. "Where is my mother's doll?"

Dante leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as if my presence were a migraine he couldn't shake. He looked exhausted. "What doll?"

"The porcelain one. The one with the blue dress. It was right here."

"Oh, that old thing?" The voice drifted from the corner, dripping with amusement.

I hadn't seen her. Sofia was perched on the leather sofa, legs crossed, holding a flute of champagne. She was smiling.

"Dante gave it to me," she said lightly.

My stomach dropped, a hollow sensation opening up beneath my ribs. "What?"

"I cut my hand yesterday, remember?" Sofia said, pouting slightly at Dante. "I was upset. Dante told me to take whatever I wanted to make me feel better. I liked the doll. It looked... expensive."

I looked at Dante, horror constricting my throat. "You gave her my mother's doll?"

Dante shrugged, a gesture of casual cruelty. "It was just a trinket, Elena. You never touched it. I didn't think you cared."

"It was my mother's," I whispered.

It was the only thing I had left of her. And he had given it to his mistress to stop her from crying over a papercut.

"Give it to me," I said, turning back to Sofia. I held out my hand, my own hand betraying me with a slight tremble.

Sofia swirled her drink, watching the bubbles rise. "I don't think so," she said. "It's mine now. Dante said so."

"Dante," I pleaded, my pride shattering. "Tell her to give it back."

Dante sighed, the sound of a man bored with his wife's hysteria. "Elena, stop causing a scene. It's just a doll. I'll buy you ten more."

"You can't buy this!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "It's not about the money!"

Sofia laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "With you, it's always about the money." She reached into her oversized designer purse and pulled out the doll.

"Here," she said, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Catch."

She didn't toss it to me. She lobbed it high into the air, creating a cruel arc destined for the unforgiving marble floor.