Isabella was sitting up in bed, lounging against the headboard and holding a glass of champagne. Three of her friends were laughing at some joke I hadn't heard.

There were no thugs. There was no danger.

The music cut out abruptly when they saw the weapon. Her friends turned ghost white.

Isabella looked at me, her eyes bright with a manic sort of glee. "Dante! You saved me!"

I lowered the gun, my grip tightening on the handle until my knuckles cracked. "Where are the men? The threat?"

"Oh, they ran away when they heard you were coming," she said, waving a hand dismissively as if swatting away a fly. "Come, have a drink. We're celebrating my survival."

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

She wasn't scared. She was bored. She had used a Code Red-a signal reserved for life or death-to get me back in the room simply because she wanted an audience.

"Get out," I said to her friends.

They didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled past me like rats fleeing a sinking ship, avoiding eye contact as they squeezed through the door.

Isabella pouted, swirling the liquid in her glass. "You're ruining the vibe, Dante."

"You lied," I said. My voice was dangerously calm, a quiet before the storm.

"I needed you," she said, reaching for me with a pouty entitlement. "Does it matter how I got you here?"

She tried to kiss me again.

I pushed her away. Hard. She stumbled back onto the pillows, champagne sloshing over the rim of her glass.

"Don't touch me," I said, my voice dripping with disgust.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, vibrating against my thigh. It was Alfredo again.

"What?" I snapped, answering without checking the screen.

"Sir," the butler's voice was trembling. "You need to come back to the study. Now."

"I'm busy, Alfredo."

"Sir, it's... it's about the date. And the book."

"What book?"

"The black ledger. And the papers. Sir... today was the anniversary."

"Anniversary of what? The wedding?" I was confused. Our anniversary was months ago.

"No, sir. The Consigliere's death. And... the clinic just called."

"The clinic?"

"Sir, please come home."

The dread started in my toes and worked its way up, freezing my blood vein by vein.

I looked at Isabella. She was checking her reflection in her compact mirror, already over my rejection, humming a tune to herself.

I turned around and ran.

I drove like a madman. I ran red lights, tires screeching across the asphalt. I nearly clipped a bus, ignoring the blare of horns in my wake.

I burst into my study, breath heaving in my chest.

Alfredo was standing by the desk, his face pale. He stepped back as I entered, giving me space to see the wreckage.

There, on the mahogany surface, sat a thick black notebook and a stack of legal documents.

I recognized the documents immediately. Divorce papers. Signed with a flourish. *Elara Rossi.* Not Moretti. Rossi.

I reached for the notebook. It looked worn. Used. The spine was cracked from frequent opening.

I opened it.

It was a list. A scorecard.

*Forgot birthday - Minus 1.*

*Called her name in sleep - Minus 5.*

*Left me at the gala - Minus 5.*

Page after page. Years of my sins, cataloged in neat, architectural handwriting.

I flipped to the end. The last entry. The ink was jagged, as if written with a shaking hand, the pen pressed hard enough to tear the paper.

*For Isabella, he sacrificed our child. Minus 5 points.*

*Score: 0.*

I stared at the words. *Sacrificed our child.*

My knees gave out. I hit the floor hard, clutching the book to my chest like it was the only thing anchoring me to the earth.

I couldn't breathe. The air in the room had vanished, sucked into a vacuum of my own making.

I killed him. Or her.

I ordered the blood for Isabella. For a bruised knee. And I let my wife bleed out.

I looked up at the empty chair where she used to sit, imagining her silhouette against the window.

"Elara," I whispered.

But the house didn't answer. The silence was absolute. It was the sound of a kingdom that had lost its queen.

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Chapter 10

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