"You scrambled a jet for Sofia because she skipped breakfast," I said, my voice steady. "Yet you let my brother be tortured to death because of a treaty you broke anyway by leaving the Gala."

Dante sighed, a heavy exhale of a parent dealing with a petulant child.

"Sofia is a Legacy Protectee. Her father's blood bought my life. It is a matter of Honor, Elena. You wouldn't understand."

"Honor," I echoed.

I stood up.

I walked to the mahogany desk and retrieved a file.

"This is Luca's transfer request," I said, tossing it down. "He wanted out. He wanted to go to culinary school. You denied it. You claimed the Family needs soldiers."

"We do," Dante replied, unmoved.

"You have enough soldiers," I said. "You just didn't care enough to save the one that belonged to me."

He looked at me then.

Really looked at me.

Usually, when we argue, I cry. I beg. I ask him to see me.

Today, my eyes were dry as a desert.

"You are being emotional," he dismissed. "I expected better composure from a Vitiello."

"I am not a Vitiello," I stated coldly. "And I am certainly not a Cavallaro."

I brushed past him.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"To take a shower. The scent of your hypocrisy is clinging to me."

I washed the smell of the gala-and him-off my skin.

I scrubbed until my flesh was raw and red.

When I finally descended the stairs, the rich aroma of garlic and tomatoes permeated the house.

Provencal stew.

Dante sat at the head of the table.

Sofia was sitting in my seat.

She was wearing a cashmere sweater that looked suspiciously like the one Dante had 'lost' last year.

"Elena!" she chirped, her voice gratingly bright. "You look terrible. So pale. I made dinner. Dante said you were upset, so I thought I'd help."

She ladled a generous portion of stew into a bowl.

"Eat," she urged. "It's a comfort recipe."

I stared at the bowl.

Green specks floated innocently in the red broth.

Parsley.

I have a severe parsley allergy.

It causes anaphylaxis.

It is noted in my medical file. It is bolded on the emergency contact list magneted to our fridge.

Dante knows this.

Or at least, I told him.

Five years ago. Four years ago. Last month.

"I can't eat this," I said.

"Oh, don't be rude," Sofia countered, her eyes filling with instant, practiced tears. "I spent hours on it. My wrist is still sore from the IV."

Dante looked up from his phone, annoyed.

"Elena," he warned. "Eat a little. Out of respect. Sofia is a guest."

"It has parsley," I said.

"It's just a garnish," Dante snapped. "Stop being difficult. You are embarrassing yourself."

He didn't remember.

He actually didn't remember.

He knew Sofia's favorite flower, her specific coffee order, and the exact date her father died.

But he couldn't remember that his wife could die from a garnish.

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a loud snap.

It was the sound of a tether breaking in the silence of deep space.

I reached out and shoved the tureen.

The heavy ceramic bowl tipped.

Hot, red stew splashed across the table.

It hit Sofia's hand.

She screamed.

It was a minor splash, but she screamed like she had been shot.

Dante was on his feet in a heartbeat.

"What is wrong with you?" he roared.

He grabbed a napkin and dabbed frantically at Sofia's hand, checking for burns that weren't there.

"She burned me!" Sofia cried, burying her face in his chest. "She did it on purpose!"

Dante turned to me.

His face was twisted with a rage I had never seen directed at his enemies.

"Apologize," he commanded. "Now."

I looked at him.

I looked at the man I had loved since I was twenty-two.

"No," I said.

"Elena," his voice dropped a dangerous octave. "Apologize to Sofia."

"I hope it scars," I said.

I turned on my heel and walked out of the dining room.

I heard Dante comforting her behind me.

"It's okay, *piccola*. She's hysterical. Ignore her."

I went to the guest room.

I locked the door.

I didn't cry.

I just stared at the wall and waited for the end.

Chapter 2

You might like