Chapter 3

Dante POV:

The summit in Paris hadn't just been a headache; it was a diplomatic disaster.

The other families were restless, sensing blood in the water regarding the Chicago territories. And bringing Jade had been a tactical error.

She was obnoxious, guzzling too much champagne, flashing that damn shark tooth bracelet around like it was the Crown Jewels.

I caught Arturo eyeing her with quiet disdain.

"Where is Elena?" he asked me, low and serious, during a smoke break on the balcony. "The other Dons are asking. It looks... unstable, Dante. Bringing the mistress to the high table."

"Elena is unwell," I lied smoothly, taking a drag of my cigar. "She's resting at the lake house."

"She's a good woman, Dante. Don't push her too far. Even saints have limits."

I waved him off. Elena wasn't going anywhere. She was probably at home right now, redecorating the living room or painting one of her sad little watercolors.

She was a fixture. Predictable. Mine.

When we landed back in Chicago two days later, the air was thick with rain. I left Jade at the hangar-I couldn't stand her voice for another minute-and took the car straight to the penthouse.

I wanted a shower, a scotch, and maybe, if Elena had calmed down, I'd let her sleep in the bed tonight.

I unlocked the door.

Silence.

Not the quiet of a sleeping house. This was the heavy, suffocating silence of a tomb.

"Elena?"

My voice echoed off the marble floors. I walked into the living room.

It was empty.

Not just empty of people. Empty of *her*.

The throw pillows she loved were gone. The paintings on the walls-the ones she made-were gone, leaving stark white squares like scars on the gray paint.

The vase of fresh flowers she always kept on the console table was missing.

I ran up the stairs to the master bedroom, taking them two at a time.

Her side of the closet was bare. Not a shoe, not a dress, not a single silk scarf remained.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest. This wasn't a tantrum. This was an evacuation.

My phone rang. It was Arturo.

"Dante," his voice was tight. "We have a problem. A lawyer named Lucia Moretti just served papers to our front office."

"What papers?" I roared, tearing through the drawers of her nightstand. Barren. Barren. Barren.

"Divorce papers. And Dante... she attached evidence. Photos. Videos. The text messages from Jade. It's all there. She's citing 'irreconcilable abuse and breach of contract'."

"Find her," I snarled. "Find her now!"

"We can't. She's gone, Dante. Her phone is dead. Her cards are inactive. She vanished."

I hurled the phone against the wall. It shattered into plastic shrapnel.

I looked at the nightstand again. There was one thing left.

Right in the center of the mahogany surface, where she used to keep her book, sat a small velvet pouch.

I opened it, my hands shaking with a rage so potent it felt like poison.

I tipped the contents into my hand.

It wasn't a ring.

It was a lump of gold. Ugly. Misshapen. Twisted.

It looked like it had been melted down with a blowtorch and left to cool in a violent puddle.

I stared at the unrecognizable metal. This was my grandmother's ring. A Paletti heirloom.

She hadn't just returned it. She had butchered it.

She had taken the symbol of my ownership and turned it into a piece of trash.

Elena POV:

The Atlantic Ocean looked different from the European side. In Chicago, the water was gray and angry. Here, in this tiny village in Portugal, it was a deep, endless blue.

I sat on the terrace of the small cottage I had rented for cash. My phone was currently sitting in a trash can at O'Hare airport.

And my name was no longer Elena. My name was Hope Veretti.

I took a deep breath of the salty air. It didn't smell like exhaust and expensive cologne. It smelled like fish and citrus.

I opened my laptop and logged into a secure email server Lucia had set up.

One message from Sofia.

*Subject: He's losing his mind.*

*Body: He tore the city apart looking for you. He thinks you're hiding in the suburbs. He has no idea you're gone-gone. Stay safe. P.S. Jade tried to move into the penthouse and he threw her clothes off the balcony. It was legendary.*

A small, genuine smile touched my lips. It was the first time I had smiled in years without forcing it.

I picked up my camera. It was heavy, familiar in my hands. I hadn't taken a photo for myself since the day I married Dante.

I looked through the viewfinder at the horizon.

*Click.*

The image froze. Just the sea. Just the sky. No bars. No cages.

I wasn't safe yet. I knew Dante. He wouldn't stop hunting. His ego wouldn't allow it. But for the first time, I wasn't just waiting to be saved. I was saving myself.

I looked down at my bare ring finger. The skin was pale where the gold had been.

I didn't miss the ring. I missed the time I had wasted wearing it.