Chapter 2

Elena POV

The fire suppression system had kicked in before the chapel could truly burn, but the phantom sensation of cold, chemical-tasting water still coated the back of my throat.

Dante had dragged me out that night, his grip bruising, and thrown me into the back of his car. He hadn't spoken a single word to me in the forty-eight hours since.

I sat in the back of my own armored sedan now, watching the rain streak against the bulletproof glass. It distorted the city lights into blurred, weeping lines.

Enzo was in the driver's seat. He was less a man and more a fixture of the upholstery-a shadow who saw everything and said nothing.

"Where is she?" I asked.

Enzo looked at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of hesitation in them.

"The Rossi restaurant on 5th," he finally murmured. "Private room in the back."

"And Dante?"

"Meeting with the Commission in Brooklyn. He won't be back for two hours."

"Good."

"Elena," Enzo said. It was rare for him to use my name. "The guard at the door. I paid him, but he is terrified of the Don. If Dante finds out..."

"If Dante finds out, I'll tell him I held a gun to your head," I said, my voice hollow. "Drive."

We pulled up to the restaurant twenty minutes later. I didn't wait for Enzo to open the door. I marched past the hostess, my heels clicking like warning shots on the marble floor. The bribed guard at the back room stepped aside, his face pale.

I didn't knock. I kicked the door open.

Sofia Russo was sitting at a table set for two, though she was alone. She was eating a truffle risotto that probably cost more than the guard's monthly salary. When she saw me, she didn't look scared.

She smiled. It was a small, fragile smile, the kind that made men want to wrap her in blankets and burn down the world to keep her warm.

"Elena," she said softly. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Cut the act, Sofia. There is no audience here."

I walked to the table. She was wearing a diamond necklace. I recognized it. Dante had bought it at an auction last year. He told me it was an investment.

"Nice necklace," I said.

She touched her throat, fingertips grazing the stones as if checking they were still there. "Dante insisted. He said I looked pale. He thought it would cheer me up."

"He burned down my business for you," I said, my voice trembling with a rage I tried desperately to suppress. "People died."

Sofia shrugged. It was a chilling, casual motion. "They were rude. Dante is very protective. He feels responsible for me. Because of Luca."

"You use Luca like a shield," I spat. "You manipulate him."

"I don't have to manipulate him," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He loves me, Elena. Not like he loves you-you are his trophy. His dark, broken Queen."

She leaned forward, her eyes glinting with malice wrapped in sweetness. "But me? I am his innocence. I am the part of him that isn't stained with blood."

She picked up her wine glass. "He feels sorry for you, you know. He told me. He says you are too damaged to ever be truly happy."

Something inside me snapped. It wasn't a loud snap. It was the quiet sound of a tether breaking, setting me adrift in violence.

I grabbed the steak knife from her table.

Sofia gasped, her eyes going wide. For the first time, the fear was real.

I lunged, grabbing a handful of her hair and slamming her face down onto the table. Dishes clattered and wine spilled like blood across the white tablecloth. I pressed the serrated blade against the soft skin of her neck.

"You think you know him?" I hissed into her ear. "I washed the blood off his hands when he slaughtered the Triad. I stitched his wounds when he didn't trust a doctor. If you ever speak about my marriage again, I will carve a smile into this pretty, innocent face."

"Elena!"

The shout came from the doorway.

I looked up. Dante was there. He wasn't in Brooklyn. He was here.

He had a gun in his hand. And it was pointed at me.

"Drop it," Dante roared. His face was a mask of fury.

"She's mocking us, Dante," I said, my hand shaking but the knife staying put. "She's poisoning you."

"I said drop it!"

"Or what?" I challenged him, tears stinging my eyes. "You'll shoot your wife? For her?"

Dante didn't hesitate.

Bang.

The sound was deafening in the small room.

I felt a sharp, stinging burn across the back of my hand. The impact knocked the knife from my grip. It clattered onto the floor.

I stared at my hand. A line of red blood welled up where the bullet had grazed my skin. He hadn't missed. He was a marksman. He had aimed to disarm me, but he had pulled the trigger knowing the risk.

He had shot me.

Dante rushed forward. He didn't come to me. He went to Sofia.

He pulled her into his arms, checking her face, her neck. "Did she cut you? Are you hurt?"

Sofia was sobbing now, burying her face in his chest. "She's crazy, Dante! She tried to kill me!"

Dante looked at me over Sofia's shoulder. His eyes were cold. There was no regret in them. Only judgment.

"You crossed a line, Elena."

I held my bleeding hand to my chest, the physical pain nothing compared to the hole in my chest. Enzo appeared in the doorway, his gun drawn, but he lowered it when he saw Dante. He looked at my hand, and his jaw tightened.

"Bandage her up," Dante ordered Enzo, not looking away from Sofia. "And take her back to the estate. Lock her in the master suite. She doesn't leave until I say so."

"Dante," I whispered. "You shot me."

He turned his back on me, guiding Sofia out of the room. "You left me no choice."