I shoved the suitcase under the bed with a frantic kick and snatched a book from the nightstand. I leaned back against the headboard, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Dante stormed in.

He looked ruinous.

His tuxedo shirt was ripped open. His chest was heaving. And he was covered in blood.

So much blood. It soaked his pants, his hands, his neck.

I sat up, the instinct to care for him rising before I could squash it.

"Dante?"

He looked at me, his eyes wild, pupils blown wide with adrenaline.

"She's safe," he rasped. "It was a trap. They used her as bait."

*Of course she is,* I thought bitterly. *She is the survivor. We are the casualties.*

He stripped off his shirt, throwing it onto the floor with a wet slap.

"Turn around," he commanded.

I saw it then. A long, jagged slash across his back. It wasn't deep enough to kill, but it was ugly. The skin was parted, weeping red.

"Get the kit," he said.

He walked into the bathroom and braced his hands against the sink, hanging his head.

I got out of bed. I retrieved the suture kit from the cabinet. Being a mafia wife meant knowing how to sew flesh as well as silk.

I walked into the bathroom. The smell of copper and sweat filled the small space.

I dampened a cloth and began to clean the wound.

He hissed as the alcohol touched the raw nerves.

Suddenly, my phone lit up on the counter. A notification flashed across the lock screen.

*United Airlines: Confirmation #HK982L. SFO.*

He grabbed the phone before I could read more. He glared at me in the mirror.

"What is this?" he demanded. "Why are you looking at flights to San Francisco?"

My heart stopped. I had been careless.

"I... I am sourcing art," I lied. My voice was steady. Practice makes perfect. "Your mother wants a new piece for the gallery. There is an auction in San Francisco."

He studied my face in the reflection. He was a human lie detector. But tonight, he was high on violence and pain. He blinked, accepting the lie.

He believed he owned me completely. The idea that I would leave was impossible to him.

"Just stitch it," he grunted.

I threaded the needle. My hands were steady.

I pierced his skin. He didn't flinch.

"You wrote that note," he said suddenly. "The one at the club."

I pulled the thread tight.

"I was a child, Dante."

"Did you mean it?" he asked. His voice was rough. "Did you love me?"

I paused. The needle hovered over his skin.

"That was a child's dream," I said. "Dreams wake up."

I finished the stitch. I tied the knot and snipped the thread.

"Done."

Dante turned around. He leaned back against the sink, towering over me. The adrenaline was still coursing through him, making him vibrant, dangerous.

He reached out. His hand cupped my jaw. His thumb brushed my lip.

He leaned in, his eyes dropping to my mouth. He wanted to kiss me. He wanted to claim me. He had just killed men, and now he wanted to feel life.

I turned my head.

His lips brushed my jawline.

I smelled it. Beneath the blood and sweat.

Her.

Smoke and vanilla.

I recoiled. I stepped back, pushing his hand away.

"No."

Dante looked offended. His brow furrowed.

"I bled tonight, Elena. I need comfort."

I looked at him, really looked at him. The entitlement. The arrogance.

"This is maintenance, Dante," I said, gesturing to his back. "Not comfort."

I walked out of the bathroom. I climbed into bed and turned my back to him.

He followed me. The mattress dipped under his weight.

He reached for me. His arm draped over my waist, pulling me into a spooning embrace. He trapped me against his hard, hot body.

I lay rigid.

"One day," I whispered into the darkness. "One day, you will reach for me and find only air."

He grunted, burying his face in my neck. "You are mine, Elena. You aren't going anywhere."

He fell asleep within minutes, his breathing heavy and even.

I lay awake, staring at the wall.

*Hug the ghost while you can, Dante.*

*Because the woman is already gone.*

Chapter 4

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