Elena POV

The fire suppression system had kicked in before the chapel could truly burn, but the phantom sensation of cold, chemical-tasting water still coated the back of my throat.

Dante had dragged me out that night, his grip bruising, and thrown me into the back of his car. He hadn't spoken a single word to me in the forty-eight hours since.

I sat in the back of my own armored sedan now, watching the rain streak against the bulletproof glass. It distorted the city lights into blurred, weeping lines.

Enzo was in the driver's seat. He was less a man and more a fixture of the upholstery-a shadow who saw everything and said nothing.

"Where is she?" I asked.

Enzo looked at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of hesitation in them.

"The Rossi restaurant on 5th," he finally murmured. "Private room in the back."

"And Dante?"

"Meeting with the Commission in Brooklyn. He won't be back for two hours."

"Good."

"Elena," Enzo said. It was rare for him to use my name. "The guard at the door. I paid him, but he is terrified of the Don. If Dante finds out..."

"If Dante finds out, I'll tell him I held a gun to your head," I said, my voice hollow. "Drive."

We pulled up to the restaurant twenty minutes later. I didn't wait for Enzo to open the door. I marched past the hostess, my heels clicking like warning shots on the marble floor. The bribed guard at the back room stepped aside, his face pale.

I didn't knock. I kicked the door open.

Sofia Russo was sitting at a table set for two, though she was alone. She was eating a truffle risotto that probably cost more than the guard's monthly salary. When she saw me, she didn't look scared.

She smiled. It was a small, fragile smile, the kind that made men want to wrap her in blankets and burn down the world to keep her warm.

"Elena," she said softly. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Cut the act, Sofia. There is no audience here."

I walked to the table. She was wearing a diamond necklace. I recognized it. Dante had bought it at an auction last year. He told me it was an investment.

"Nice necklace," I said.

She touched her throat, fingertips grazing the stones as if checking they were still there. "Dante insisted. He said I looked pale. He thought it would cheer me up."

"He burned down my business for you," I said, my voice trembling with a rage I tried desperately to suppress. "People died."

Sofia shrugged. It was a chilling, casual motion. "They were rude. Dante is very protective. He feels responsible for me. Because of Luca."

"You use Luca like a shield," I spat. "You manipulate him."

"I don't have to manipulate him," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He loves me, Elena. Not like he loves you-you are his trophy. His dark, broken Queen."

She leaned forward, her eyes glinting with malice wrapped in sweetness. "But me? I am his innocence. I am the part of him that isn't stained with blood."

She picked up her wine glass. "He feels sorry for you, you know. He told me. He says you are too damaged to ever be truly happy."

Something inside me snapped. It wasn't a loud snap. It was the quiet sound of a tether breaking, setting me adrift in violence.

I grabbed the steak knife from her table.

Sofia gasped, her eyes going wide. For the first time, the fear was real.

I lunged, grabbing a handful of her hair and slamming her face down onto the table. Dishes clattered and wine spilled like blood across the white tablecloth. I pressed the serrated blade against the soft skin of her neck.

"You think you know him?" I hissed into her ear. "I washed the blood off his hands when he slaughtered the Triad. I stitched his wounds when he didn't trust a doctor. If you ever speak about my marriage again, I will carve a smile into this pretty, innocent face."

"Elena!"

The shout came from the doorway.

I looked up. Dante was there. He wasn't in Brooklyn. He was here.

He had a gun in his hand. And it was pointed at me.

"Drop it," Dante roared. His face was a mask of fury.

"She's mocking us, Dante," I said, my hand shaking but the knife staying put. "She's poisoning you."

"I said drop it!"

"Or what?" I challenged him, tears stinging my eyes. "You'll shoot your wife? For her?"

Dante didn't hesitate.

Bang.

The sound was deafening in the small room.

I felt a sharp, stinging burn across the back of my hand. The impact knocked the knife from my grip. It clattered onto the floor.

I stared at my hand. A line of red blood welled up where the bullet had grazed my skin. He hadn't missed. He was a marksman. He had aimed to disarm me, but he had pulled the trigger knowing the risk.

He had shot me.

Dante rushed forward. He didn't come to me. He went to Sofia.

He pulled her into his arms, checking her face, her neck. "Did she cut you? Are you hurt?"

Sofia was sobbing now, burying her face in his chest. "She's crazy, Dante! She tried to kill me!"

Dante looked at me over Sofia's shoulder. His eyes were cold. There was no regret in them. Only judgment.

"You crossed a line, Elena."

I held my bleeding hand to my chest, the physical pain nothing compared to the hole in my chest. Enzo appeared in the doorway, his gun drawn, but he lowered it when he saw Dante. He looked at my hand, and his jaw tightened.

"Bandage her up," Dante ordered Enzo, not looking away from Sofia. "And take her back to the estate. Lock her in the master suite. She doesn't leave until I say so."

"Dante," I whispered. "You shot me."

He turned his back on me, guiding Sofia out of the room. "You left me no choice."

Elena POV

The master bedroom was a cavern of gold and cream, offering a pristine view of the manicured gardens below.

The windows lacked bars, yet the room remained a cell.

Two guards stood sentry outside the door. They weren't Enzo. They were Dante's loyalists-men who looked at me with cold contempt, as if I were a rabid dog that needed to be put down.

My hand was heavily bandaged. The graze wasn't deep, but the scar would be permanent.

A silver line of remembrance.

It had been three days.

The lock clicked.

The door swung open.

Dante walked in. The scent of aged whiskey and expensive sandalwood cologne preceded him-an intoxicating, suffocating mix.

He looked tired. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, speaking of sleepless nights.

He strode to the vanity where I was sitting. He placed a velvet box on the marble surface.

"Open it," he said.

I didn't move.

He sighed, a sound of heavy impatience, and opened it himself. Inside sat a pink diamond the size of a quail's egg. It was flawless. A cold, glittering stone worth millions.

"For the anniversary," he said. "And... for the hand."

I looked at the ring. Then I looked at him.

"You think you can buy forgiveness with a rock?"

"I'm not buying forgiveness," he said, loosening his tie with a sharp tug. "I'm reminding you of your place. You are my wife. You are a Moretti. We don't act like savages in restaurants."

"You shot me."

"I stopped you from making a mistake you couldn't come back from," he said calmly. "Sofia is family."

"Sofia is a parasite."

I reached into the drawer of the vanity. I pulled out a thick envelope and tossed it onto the ring box with a dull thud.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Separation papers," I said. "I know we can't divorce. The Church, the Commission... I know the rules. But I want a separation. I want to live at the lake house. Alone."

Dante stared at the papers. His face darkened, shadows stretching across his features.

He picked up the envelope and ripped it in half. The sound was violent in the quiet room. Then he ripped the halves again. He let the shredded remnants flutter to the floor like tragic confetti.

"No," he said.

"I'm not asking, Dante."

He grabbed my face, his fingers digging into my jaw bruisingly hard. He forced me to look at him.

"You don't get to leave. You belong to me. I claimed you. I killed for you. You are mine until you are in the ground."

"I'm already in the ground," I said, my voice hollow. "You buried me the day you brought her home."

He let go of me, disgusted. He turned and walked to the door.

He stopped to talk to the Capo stationed outside. He didn't close the door all the way. He left it ajar, just enough.

He wanted me to hear.

"Is she calming down, Boss?" the Capo asked.

"She's difficult," Dante said, his voice low but carrying. "She's sharp. Too sharp. She sees threats where there are none."

"Maybe she's right about the girl," the Capo ventured.

"Sofia?" Dante laughed. It was a cruel, dry sound. "Sofia is pure. She's innocent. She reminds me that not everything in this world is covered in filth."

He paused, and I could feel his words hanging in the air.

"Elena... Elena is strong. She can take the rough handling. She's survived worse than a graze on the hand. But Sofia? Sofia would shatter."

I slid off the vanity stool and sat on the floor, surrounded by the torn paper.

She can take the rough handling.

That was it. That was the truth of our marriage.

He didn't protect me because he thought I didn't need it. He thought I was already broken, so a few more cracks wouldn't matter. He thought because I had survived the cage, I could survive his cruelty.

He was wrong.

I wasn't just going to survive this.

I was going to burn it all down.

Elena POV

The dress Dante had sent was red. Not just red-it was bright, blood-soaked crimson.

A whore's color.

It was a statement piece. He wanted me to wear it to Sofia's birthday gala. He wanted to parade me around like a trophy, to show the underworld that the Moretti household was stable.

I left the red dress on the bed, a pool of unwanted silk.

I went to my closet and pulled out a vintage Givenchy gown. High neck, long sleeves, floor-length.

It was black. Onyx black. The color of mourning.

When I walked down the grand staircase, the chatter in the ballroom died into a suffocating silence.

Dante was at the bottom of the stairs, a glass of scotch in his hand. Sofia was next to him, wearing white.

Of course she was wearing white.

She looked like a debutante. I looked like the widow at her husband's funeral.

Dante's jaw clenched when he saw me. His eyes darkened, cold and lethal. He knew exactly what I was doing.

"You look... somber," he said when I reached the bottom step.

"I'm grieving," I said, loud enough for the Underboss standing nearby to hear.

"Grieving what?" Sofia asked, clutching Dante's arm as if she owned it.

"My marriage," I said.

Dante gripped my elbow, his fingers pressing hard into the sensitive nerve. "Smile, Elena. Or we go back to the room."

"I'd prefer the room," I said.

He didn't let go. He dragged me into the crowd. For an hour, we played the part.

He held my waist; I didn't flinch. Men kissed my ring; I didn't pull away. But every time Dante turned his head, his eyes sought out Sofia. He tracked her across the room with the focus of a predator.

I needed air. I stepped out onto the terrace. The night air was cool against my flushed skin.

"You're embarrassing him."

I didn't turn around. I knew that voice.

Sofia walked up beside me. She leaned against the stone balustrade, her white dress glowing like a ghost in the moonlight.

"He hates that dress," she said.

"He hates a lot of things," I said. "He hates betrayal. Which is funny, considering."

Sofia laughed softly. "You think he's betraying you? Oh, Elena. He's just moving on. You were a rescue dog. He felt good saving you. But no one wants to sleep with a rescue dog forever. They want a pedigree."

My hand twitched toward the clutch purse under my arm. Inside was a small, folding tactical knife Enzo had given me.

"Careful, Sofia," I said, my voice low. "The ice is thin."

"He told me about the trafficking ring," she whispered, leaning closer, her perfume cloying and sweet. "He told me what those men did to you. How used you were when he found you. Do you really think a man like Dante Moretti wants seconds?"

It was a lie. Dante never spoke about that night. But she knew. Which meant he had told her. He had shared my shame with her to make himself look like a saint.

I stared at her, my vision blurring with red rage.

Sofia saw the look in my eyes. She glanced back at the glass doors. The party was in full swing. Dante was looking our way.

She smiled, a wicked, twisted thing.

"Watch this," she said.

She reached out and grabbed my wrist-the one holding the clutch. She dug her nails in. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, she snatched the clutch from me.

Before I could react, she popped the clasp and pulled out the knife.

It happened in a heartbeat. Before I could process what was happening, she slashed the blade across her own upper arm.

It wasn't a deep cut, but blood welled up instantly, stark and shocking against her white dress.

She screamed. It was a bloodcurdling, terrified shriek.

"Help! Dante! Help me!"

She threw the knife at my feet and collapsed to the ground, sobbing.