Elena POV

I mailed my marriage away in a flat, rigid cardboard envelope.

It cost me exactly twenty dollars for expedited shipping. That was the cheap price of severing a bond that was supposed to be eternal before God.

I stood outside the post office, the winter wind biting at my exposed cheeks. I felt strangely, terrifyingly light. The heavy anchor of Dante Vitiello was no longer chained to my ankle.

I had mailed two packages. One went to Giulia, containing the deed to my small savings account and my final will. The other went to Dante, containing the divorce papers I had signed with a remarkably steady hand.

I walked back to the car. My legs felt heavy, dragging as if pulled by lead weights. The energy burst-that terminal lucidity the doctors always whispered about-was fading fast.

My phone buzzed against my hip.

It was Sienna. Of course it was.

She had sent a photo. It was an intimate close-up of Dante sleeping. His face was relaxed, his guard completely down.

The caption read: "He dreams of our son. What do you dream of, Elena?"

I looked at the screen. I didn't feel the familiar stab of jealousy. I didn't feel the urge to scream. I just felt an overwhelming exhaustion.

I deleted the thread.

I drove back to the estate. The wrought-iron gates opened automatically, recognizing the car of a ghost.

I walked out into the garden. It was far too cold to be outside, but the house felt like a tomb. I sat on the cold stone bench where Dante had once proposed to me.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the old leather journal I had found while cleaning out the closet.

The pages were yellowed with age. The handwriting in the beginning was loopy and excited.

Entry 1: I met a boy today. He has blood on his knuckles and sadness in his eyes. I think I love him.

I flipped through the years. The entries became shorter, sharper. The ink became darker.

Entry 400: He didn't come home again.

Entry 650: I am alone in a house full of people.

I took a pen from my pocket. My hand was trembling now. The pain in my abdomen was a screaming beast, tearing me apart from the inside out.

I wrote one final line.

I am in pain. I want to go. I wish I never met Dante Vitiello.

I closed the book.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in bruises of purple and red.

I took the bottle of morphine from my pocket. I didn't bother counting the pills. I just swallowed them. All of them.

I lay down on the freezing stone bench.

Slowly, the pain began to recede. It was replaced by a warm, fuzzy blanket of nothingness.

My eyes grew heavy.

I saw a figure walking toward me through the garden. He was wearing a leather jacket that was two sizes too big. He had a split lip and a shy, boyish smile.

It was Dante. But not the Don. Not the monster.

It was the boy from the studio apartment. The boy who had promised me the moon.

"Elena," he said, reaching out a hand. "Let's go home."

I smiled.

I took his hand.

And then, there was only white.

Dante Vitiello POV

A courier arrived at my office at ten in the morning.

My assistant placed the envelope on my mahogany desk, her hand trembling. Everyone was on edge today. The shipment from the docks was late, and I was in a mood to break fingers.

I ripped the envelope open.

Divorce papers.

I stared at the document. It was signed. Elena Rossi. Not Vitiello.

I laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound that made my underboss flinch.

"She has lost her mind," I said, tossing the papers back onto the desk. "She thinks this is a game. She thinks she can divorce the Don of Chicago because I renovated a house."

Sienna was sitting on the leather sofa, flipping through a magazine. She looked up, feigning concern.

"Is it Elena again?" she asked. "She is just acting out, Dante. It's the hormones. Or lack thereof."

Her cruelty usually amused me. Today, it grated on my nerves.

I picked up my phone and dialed Elena.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

"Pick up," I growled.

Voicemail.

I grabbed my coat.

"Where are you going?" Sienna asked, standing up. "We have a lunch reservation."

"Cancel it," I said. "I am going to end this tantrum once and for all."

I drove to the estate. I was going to tear those papers up in her face. I was going to remind her that she belonged to me until I said otherwise.

I stormed into the house.

"Elena!" I shouted.

Silence.

The house felt different. Hollow. It echoed.

I walked into the living room. It was empty. Not just devoid of people, but devoid of life. The vases were gone. The throw pillows were gone.

I ran up the stairs.

The master bedroom was stripped. The closet doors were open, revealing bare racks. No clothes. No shoes. No perfume bottles on the vanity.

"She left," I whispered.

Rage boiled in my chest. She had actually run. She thought she could hide from me? I would burn down the entire state to find her.

I saw a journal on the desk. It was the only thing left in the room.

I picked it up. I recognized it. She used to write in it every night when we were first married.

I opened to the last page.

Dante, Goodbye.

I threw the book into the trash can.

"Coward," I spat.

My phone rang.

I answered it immediately, ready to unleash hell.

"Where are you?" I roared.

It wasn't Elena.

It was Giulia. And she was screaming.

"She's gone, you bastard! She's gone!"

I froze.

"Stop lying, Giulia. Tell me where you are hiding her."

"I'm not hiding her!" Giulia sobbed, the sound raw and broken. "She's dead! Elena is dead!"

I laughed again. It was a reflex. A defense mechanism.

"Nice try," I said. "Tell Elena the joke isn't funny."

"I am at the funeral home on 5th!" Giulia screamed. "Come sign the cremation papers, you son of a bitch!"

The line went dead.

I stood there. The phone felt slippery in my hand.

Dead?

Impossible. She was just jealous. She was just dramatic. She was mine.

My assistant walked in. "Boss, I tracked Mrs. Vitiello's phone."

"Where is it?" I demanded.

"The morgue, sir. St. Mary's Hospital."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis.

I didn't speak. I just ran.

I drove like a madman. I ran red lights. I mounted the curb to bypass traffic.

I pulled up to the funeral home. Giulia's car was there.

I slammed through the double doors. The receptionist looked up, terrified.

"Where is she?" I shouted.

Giulia stepped out of a viewing room down the hall. Her face was swollen from crying. She looked at me with pure hatred.

I pushed past her.

I walked into the room.

There was a table in the center. A white sheet covered a shape.

"No," I whispered.

I walked forward. My legs felt like they didn't belong to me.

I reached out and pulled the sheet back.

Dante Vitiello POV

My first thought was that it was a wax doll.

It had to be. It couldn't be Elena. Elena was soft. Elena was warm. Elena had cheeks that flushed pink when I kissed her.

But this thing on the table was grey. It was skeletal. The skin was stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones, and the lips were a bruised shade of blue.

I stumbled back, hitting the wall hard.

"It's a trick," I said. My voice sounded like it was coming from underwater, distant and distorted.

"It's not a trick, Dante."

Giulia was standing in the doorway. She wasn't screaming anymore. The hysteria had been replaced by a terrifying, hollow calm.

"Look at her," she said. "Really look at her."

I forced myself to look.

I saw the faint scar on her chin from when she fell off a bike at twenty. I saw the small mole on the curve of her neck.

It was Elena.

But she looked... starved.

She looked like she had been dying for a long time.

"Why is she so thin?" I asked, the words scraping against the bile rising in my throat.

"Cancer," Giulia said. "Pancreatic. Stage four."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "She was fine. She was just... tired. She was jealous of Sienna."

"She has been dying in your house for months," Giulia spat, her voice cracking the air. "And you were too busy fucking your mistress to notice she couldn't eat. You were too busy building a nursery to notice your wife was fading away."

I fell to my knees. The impact cracked against the tile floor, but I didn't feel it.

I crawled to the table. I took her hand.

It was ice cold.

"Elena," I whispered. "Wake up."

Silence.

"Elena, please. I'm here. I'm home."

Nothing.

I tried to lift her. I needed to warm her up. If I just warmed her up, she would wake up.

"Sir, you can't do that."

A man in a suit tried to pull me away.

"Get off me!" I roared. I shoved him across the room with a burst of frantic strength.

I wrapped my arms around her body. She was so light. Too light. Like a bird with hollow bones.

Giulia walked over. She didn't try to pull me away.

Instead, she raised her hand and slapped me.

The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room. My head snapped to the side.

"She is gone!" Giulia screamed, the hollowness shattering. "You killed her! You killed her with your indifference! Now let her go!"

I looked at Elena's face. Her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful. More peaceful than she had looked in years.

The funeral director approached cautiously, holding a clipboard like a shield.

"Mr. Vitiello," he said, his voice trembling. "We need a signature for the death certificate. And the release for cremation."

"Cremation?" I asked. "No. She goes in the family mausoleum."

Giulia snatched the clipboard.

"She didn't want the mausoleum," she hissed. "She didn't want to be near you."

I looked at the paper. Cause of Death: Pancreatic Cancer. Cardiac Arrest.

I picked up the pen. My hand was shaking so hard the ink blotted against the page.

I signed my name.

It felt like signing my own death warrant.