Chapter 4

The pungent aroma of spicy tomato sauce saturated the kitchen, barely masking the acrid scent of betrayal that hung heavy in the air.

Sofia was in my house.

Again.

She stood at the stove, stirring a pot, wearing an apron that looked ridiculous over her skintight dress.

"I just wanted to say thank you," she said, her voice saccharine. "For the apartment. It's... cozy."

She hated it.

Dump. Rat hole. I deserve better.

I stood in the doorway, my arms crossed over my chest, creating a barrier.

"You shouldn't be cooking," I said coolly. "We have staff."

"Oh, I insist," Sofia beamed, tapping the spoon against the rim. "Dante loves my arrabbiata. He used to say it was the only thing that warmed him up."

She looked at me, her eyes glinting with a sharp, calculated malice.

He never talks about your cooking. Does he even eat with you?

She knew.

She knew our dinners were silent affairs, eaten in the cold dining room with ten feet of mahogany between us.

Dante walked in then.

He had a bandage on his lip from where I had bitten him yesterday.

He looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes deep.

"It smells good," he said.

He didn't look at me.

He went straight to the counter where Sofia was working.

She preened under his attention like a cat stretching in the sun.

"Taste," she said, offering him a spoon.

He took it.

He tasted it.

"Good," he grunted.

"Just like old times," Sofia whispered.

I felt like I was invisible.

A ghost in my own home.

"I'm not hungry," I said, turning to leave.

"Elena, stay," Dante said. It was an order, low and vibrating with warning. "We will eat together."

"I'd rather eat glass," I muttered.

Sofia turned, holding the pot with both hands.

"Oh, Elena, please. I made it for-"

She stumbled.

It was a performance worthy of an Oscar.

Her foot caught on absolutely nothing.

She lurched forward.

The pot of boiling red sauce flew from her hands.

Straight at me.

I saw it coming.

My mind screamed Move!

But I didn't move fast enough.

The hot sauce splashed against my legs, soaking instantly through my jeans.

"Ah!" I cried out, the pain sharp, scalding, and immediate.

Sofia screamed. "Oh my god! I'm so clumsy!"

Burn, you bitch.

The thought was so vicious, so clear, it made me dizzy.

Dante was moving before the pot even hit the floor.

He rushed toward us.

But who was he rushing to?

Sofia was sobbing, holding her wrist like she had sprained it.

"Dante, I'm so sorry! My wrist gave out!"

I sank to the floor, clutching my burning leg.

The room spun.

I decided to let it spin.

I let my eyes roll back.

I went limp.

It was a gamble.

A test.

"Elena!"

Dante's voice was a roar.

He didn't stop at Sofia.

He stepped over the spilled sauce, ignoring Sofia's cries, and scooped me up into his arms.

"Call the doctor!" he bellowed at the staff who had rushed in.

He carried me out of the kitchen, his chest heaving.

I kept my eyes closed, listening to the frantic rhythm of his heart against my ear.

He was terrified.

For me.

For a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe it was love.

He carried me to the living room and laid me on the sofa.

"Get scissors!" he yelled.

He began to cut my jeans away from the burn.

His hands were gentle, yet shaking slightly.

"You're okay," he muttered. "You're okay, Elena."

The doctor arrived minutes later.

He treated the burns. They were second-degree, painful but not life-threatening.

I opened my eyes as the doctor was wrapping my leg.

Dante was kneeling beside me, his face pale.

"What happened?" he asked.

"She threw it at me," I whispered.

Dante blinked.

"What?"

"Sofia," I said, my voice raspy. "She looked me in the eye and threw the pot."

Dante stood up, his expression hardening as the fear receded, replaced by defensive walls.

"Elena, she tripped. I saw it."

"You saw what she wanted you to see," I said. "I heard her, Dante. She thought it. Burn, you bitch."

Dante ran a hand over his face.

"Stop it," he said. "Stop with the paranoia. She is a grieving widow who made a mistake."

"She is a snake!" I cried, trying to sit up.

"She wants to replace me!"

"She has nothing!" Dante shouted back. "She is alone! Why can't you have a shred of compassion?"

She is jealous. It is pathetic.

The thought cut deeper than the burn.

He thought I was jealous.

He thought I was the villain.

I fell back against the cushions, defeated.

"Get out," I whispered.

"Elena-"

"Get out!"

Dante stared at me for a long moment.

Then he turned and walked away.

He didn't go to check on Sofia.

He went to his study.

To drink.

To escape his crazy, jealous wife.

I lay there, the pain in my leg throbbing in time with my heart.

He would never believe me.

As long as she played the victim, I would always be the aggressor.

I looked at the ceiling.

Las Vegas wasn't just a plan anymore.

It was a necessity.

I needed to leave.

Before she killed me.

Or before I killed her.