Chapter 7

He didn't die.

Of course he didn't.

Bennett Vitale was far too stubborn to succumb to death, and certainly too angry to let the devil claim him just yet.

He returned a week later, not just as a survivor, but as a myth.

The papers were already calling him the "Bloodied Underboss."

He had taken three bullets to the chest and still managed to drive a knife through the Russo Capo's throat.

In one night, he had secured the ports.

He had secured the family legacy.

And, most importantly to him, he had secured Aria.

I heard the whispered stories from the maids as they dusted the hallways.

They spoke of how he had crawled, bleeding out, fueled by sheer will just to ensure Aria was moved to a safe house in the Hamptons.

How he had refused life-saving surgery until he heard her voice on the phone.

While the world celebrated his immortality, I sat in the penthouse, French audio lessons playing through my noise-canceling headphones.

Je voudrais un billet pour Paris, s'il vous plaît.

I repeated the words until the syllables tasted like freedom.

I packed my life into two modest suitcases.

Not the couture he had bought me.

Not the heavy jewels that felt like shackles.

Just my books, my sketches, and the few pieces of clothing I had purchased with my own money before I became Mrs. Vitale.

When Bennett finally came home, it was the night of the Victory Dinner.

He walked in, limping heavily, a polished cane in his hand.

He looked rugged.

Dangerous.

The sterile white bandages peeking out from his collar only added to the dark allure that seemed to make women weak in the knees.

Aria was with him, of course.

She was beaming, clutching his good arm as if she were the battery source of his power.

"Kelsey," Bennett said.

He sounded exhausted.

He sounded like a man expecting a dutiful welcome home kiss.

I stood by the stairs, my face a carefully constructed mask.

"You're alive," I stated flatly.

"Is that all?" He frowned, wincing as he shifted his weight on the cane. "I bought you something."

He signaled to an enforcer, who hauled a wooden crate into the foyer.

They pried it open with a groan of timber.

It was a statue.

A marble angel, likely looted from a villa in Tuscany during his raids.

"For the gallery," he said, gesturing vaguely. "To replace the one that broke."

He was trying to buy forgiveness with stolen art.

He was trying to patch a bullet hole with a band-aid.

"Thank you," I said. "Put it in the hall."

Bennett looked annoyed at my lack of enthusiasm. "I almost died, Kelsey. A little warmth wouldn't kill you."

"I'm not feeling well," I replied.

It was the excuse I had used for months.

Usually, he ignored it.

"Still?" He rolled his eyes, his patience thinning. "You need to see a doctor. You're always sick lately."

He didn't ask what was wrong.

He didn't cross the room to touch my forehead or check for a fever.

Instead, he turned to Aria. "Help me with my tie. My shoulder is stiff."

Aria smirked at me over his shoulder as she reached up, her fingers deft and intimate against the column of his neck.

"I'll take care of you, Bennett," she cooed, her voice dripping with syrup. "Since your wife is evidently too fragile."

I watched them.

I watched the way he leaned into her touch, seeking comfort I no longer had to give.

I watched the way he completely forgot I was even in the room.

"I'm going to bed," I lied.

"Fine," Bennett said, not bothering to look back. "We have the dinner to get to. Don't wait up."

I went upstairs.

I waited until I heard the heavy thud of the front door closing.

I waited until the purr of the limousine engine faded down the street.

Then, I called a car.

I took my two suitcases.

I walked out of the penthouse that had been my gilded cage for four long years.

The doorman looked at the luggage, then up at me, confusion knitting his brow.

"Going on a trip, Mrs. Vitale?"

"Yes," I said, stepping out into the cool, biting night air. "A very long one."

I didn't leave a note.

Notes were for people who expected to be found.