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.

Elena POV

The double doors crashed open, rebounding against the walls.

Dante was the first one through.

He took in the tableau instantly: Sofia collapsed on the floor, clutching her bleeding arm, the pristine white of her dress blooming with a stark, violent red.

And then there was me, standing over her, my face a mask of frozen shock, the knife lying damningly by the hem of my black gown.

"She stabbed me!" Sofia screamed, her voice shrill and wet with tears. She pointed a trembling finger at me. "She said she was going to kill me!"

Dante looked at the knife. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to me.

There was no question in his eyes. No hesitation. No search for the truth. Just pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Grab her," he barked to his guards.

Two men seized my arms before I could even draw a breath. I didn't fight. The verdict was already written on his face.

"Dante, she did it herself," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. "Please, just look at the angle-"

"Silence!" he roared.

He knelt beside Sofia, pressing his fine linen handkerchief to her wound. "Get the doctor. Now!"

Once the order was given, he stood up and stalked over to me.

The back of his hand connected with my cheekbone before I saw it coming.

The force of it snapped my head back. Pain exploded behind my eyes, and I tasted copper.

"I told you," he snarled, looming over me like a dark god. "I told you if you touched her..."

"I didn't," I choked out, spitting blood onto the terrace stones.

"Take her to the cellar," Dante ordered, turning his back on me. "The soundproof room."

The guards dragged me away. My heels scraped uselessly against the floor as I was thrown into the damp, cold darkness beneath the estate.

It smelled of mold, stagnant water, and old fear. In the center of the room sat a metal chair equipped with heavy leather straps.

They strapped me in. Tight.

Ten minutes later, Dante entered.

He had removed his jacket. He rolled up his sleeves with precise, methodical movements. He wasn't holding a whip or a knife.

He was holding a simple plastic pitcher of water.

Behind him, a guard carried a folded towel.

My blood ran cold. Ice filled my veins.

He knew. He knew my nightmare.

When I was in the cage, before he saved me, the traffickers used to hold my head underwater in a bucket of filth to keep me quiet. Drowning was my terror. It was the thing that made me wake up screaming in the middle of the night, clutching at his chest for safety.

"Dante," I whispered. "Please."

"You need to learn," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, hollowed out. "You attacked a family member. You broke Omertà. You need to be disciplined."

"I didn't touch her!"

He nodded to the guard. The guard stepped forward and placed the towel over my face.

Darkness swallowed me.

"Admit it," Dante said.

"No."

He tipped the pitcher.

The water poured.

The towel soaked instantly. It clung to my nose and mouth like a second, suffocating skin. I tried to inhale, but I sucked in only fluid. My lungs spasmed violently.

The panic was instant, primal. Time dissolved. I was back in the cage. I was drowning. I was dying.

My body thrashed against the leather straps, straining the buckles. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see. There was only the darkness and the water filling my throat.

He stopped pouring.

The guard ripped the towel off.

I gasped, retching, coughing up water as my chest heaved in desperate, ragged rhythms. I was shaking so hard the metal chair rattled against the concrete floor.

"Admit it," Dante said softly. "Say you hurt her because you were jealous. Apologize."

I looked up at him through wet, stinging lashes. My hair was plastered to my skull. My makeup was running in dark streaks down my cheeks. I must have looked pathetic.

But inside, something fractured and reassembled into steel.

"I..." I wheezed.

"Yes?"

"I hate you," I rasped, my voice raw and broken. "I hate you more than I ever loved you."

Dante's eyes flickered. For a second, a crack appeared in the armor-he looked hurt. Then the mask slammed back down, harder than before.

"Again," he ordered.

The towel went back on. The water poured.

As I drowned in the darkness of my own home, tortured by the man who had sworn to protect me, I made a silent promise.

I wasn't going to leave him.

I was going to destroy him.

Elena POV

The water was gone, but I was still drowning.

I lay in the hospital bed in the west wing of the estate, staring blankly at the ceiling. My lungs felt raw, scorched, as if I had inhaled broken glass. Every shallow breath was a reminder of the towel, the jug, and the man who had poured it.

Enzo stood by the window, a silent sentinel. He hadn't moved in an hour.

"He didn't sign the papers," Enzo said. His voice was low, devoid of the usual soldier's gruffness.

"I know," I rasped. My throat was swollen, the words scraping against the bruising.

"He thinks he broke you," Enzo continued. He turned to look at me, his eyes searching for cracks. "Did he?"

I sat up slowly. The room spun violently. I steadied myself against the cold metal railing of the bed, forcing the vertigo to submit.

"He broke the wife," I said, my voice gaining a jagged edge. "He didn't break me."

I reached for the burner phone Enzo had smuggled into the lining of the mattress. My hands were steady now. The trembling had stopped the moment the water stopped.

I dialed a number I had memorized years ago, back when I was the Queen of this empire, back when I managed Dante's ledger better than he ever could.

It rang twice.

"Speak," a heavy Russian accent answered.

"Nikolai," I said.

There was a pause. Then a low, amused chuckle. "Mrs. Moretti. To what do I owe the pleasure? Is the Reaper dead?"

"Not yet," I said. "But I can give you his legs. The West End Docks expansion. The blueprints, the security rotation, the blind spots."

The line went silent. The air in the room seemed to tighten. That territory was worth billions. It was the gateway to the Atlantic.

"And the price?" Nikolai asked.

"A favor," I said. "I need a stage. And I need you to be the villain."

"Done."

I hung up and handed the phone to Enzo. "Liquidate the offshore accounts. The ones under my maiden name. Get the boat ready."

"Elena," Enzo said, hesitation flickering in his gaze. "This is a one-way trip. If this fails, he will kill us both."

"If we stay, I am already dead," I said.

The door handle turned.

Enzo vanished the phone into his jacket with practiced speed. I lay back against the pillows, letting my shoulders slump, letting the fire in my eyes die down to a dull, defeated ash.

Dante walked in.

He looked impeccable. Fresh suit, hair slicked back, the scent of expensive sandalwood masking the smell of chlorine. But there was a tension in his shoulders. He walked to the bed and looked down at me. He was searching for defiance. He was waiting for the fight.

I didn't give it to him.

I lowered my eyes. I let a single, calculated tear slip out.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

Dante froze. He blinked, as if he hadn't heard me correctly.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," I repeated, my voice cracking perfectly. "I was jealous. I was irrational. You were right. Sofia is family. I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have made a scene."

The tension left his body instantly. He let out a long breath and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out and touched my cheek. His fingers were warm. I didn't flinch. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to sink my teeth into his hand.

"I knew you were in there," Dante said softly. "I knew you just needed to be... reminded."

"I know my place now," I lied, the taste of it bitter on my tongue.

He leaned down and kissed my forehead. "Good. We have the handover ceremony at the docks tomorrow. The expansion is finally complete. I want you there by my side. I want everyone to see that the Queen is back."

"I would be honored," I said.

He smiled. It was the smile of a man who thought he had won. He thought he had tamed the wild thing. He didn't realize he had just invited the assassin into his bed.