Chapter 7

Dante didn't come home that night.

He didn't come home the next night, either.

He remained at the club, barricaded in his office, drowning his "sorrows" in a toxic blend of scotch and violence.

I stayed in the guest room.

I didn't cry.

I was done with tears.

I was planning.

On the third day, I dressed. A white suit.

Sharp. Professional. Armor.

I drove to the club.

The bouncers let me in, though their eyes darted away, nervous and evasive.

They knew.

Everyone knew.

The Capo's wife was falling from grace, and they all had front-row seats.

I walked through the smoky lounge, ignoring the burning stares of the soldiers and the strippers.

I ascended the stairs to the VIP level.

I reached Dante's office door.

It was slightly ajar.

Voices drifted from inside. Low. Tense.

I recognized the gravelly baritone of Consigliere Vitale.

"You look like hell, Dante," Vitale said.

"I feel like hell," Dante grunted.

The sharp clink of glass against glass punctuated the silence.

"This situation with Elena," Vitale said. "It is becoming a distraction. The men are talking."

"Let them talk," Dante snapped.

"They are saying you can't control your house," Vitale pressed. "They are saying Sofia has you on a leash."

"Sofia is a responsibility," Dante said, his voice weary. "Nothing more."

"Is she?" Vitale challenged. "Because you are spending your nights here, while your wife is alone in that fortress."

I held my breath.

I leaned closer to the gap in the door.

This was it.

The moment of truth.

"Elena is difficult," Dante said. "She is cold. She is demanding. She sees enemies where there are none."

He paused, and I could practically hear the unspoken words: I just want peace. Sofia gives me peace. Elena gives me war.

"And Sofia?" Vitale asked. "If you had to choose. The debt of honor, or the vow of marriage?"

There was a long, agonizing silence.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"Sofia has no one," Dante said finally. "Her family is dead because of me. Elena... Elena is a Vitiello. She is made of iron. She will survive anything."

Sofia needs me. Elena doesn't.

He chose her.

Not because he loved her more.

But because he thought I was strong enough to break.

He was punishing me for my strength.

I stepped back from the door.

The pain was so sharp it felt physical, like a knife twisting in my gut.

But then, clarity washed over me, cold and absolute.

He was right.

I was made of iron.

And iron didn't bend.

It struck.

I pushed the door open.

Dante looked up, startled.

He looked terrible. Unshaven, eyes bloodshot, his shirt unbuttoned.

He looked at me, and for a fleeting second, I saw relief.

Then the wall came up.

"Elena," he said, his voice hardening. "We are busy."

"I know," I said. "I heard."

I walked to his desk.

I didn't look at Vitale.

I pulled the envelope from my purse.

Inside was a letter.

Not a legal document.

A resignation.

"What is this?" Dante asked, eyeing the envelope warily.

"You said marriage is a contract," I said. "A duty."

I placed the envelope on the mahogany desk.

"I am in breach of contract."

Dante frowned.

"Stop playing games, Elena. Go home."

"I am," I said.

I reached for my left hand.

I pulled off the diamond ring.

It was heavy.

It carried the weight of a thousand lies.

I dropped it on top of the envelope.

It made a sharp clack sound that echoed in the quiet room.

Dante stared at the ring.

His face went pale.

No. She wouldn't.

"Goodbye, Dante," I said.

I turned and walked out.

"Elena!" he shouted.

I didn't stop.

I walked down the stairs, through the lounge, and out into the blinding sunlight.

I got into my car.

I didn't go to the Estate.

I drove to the train station.

My phone started ringing.

Dante.

I threw the phone out the window onto the highway.

I watched in the rearview mirror as it shattered against the asphalt.

Silence.

Finally.