It was a statement piece. He wanted me to wear it to Sofia's birthday gala. He wanted to parade me around like a trophy, to show the underworld that the Moretti household was stable.

I left the red dress on the bed, a pool of unwanted silk.

I went to my closet and pulled out a vintage Givenchy gown. High neck, long sleeves, floor-length.

It was black. Onyx black. The color of mourning.

When I walked down the grand staircase, the chatter in the ballroom died into a suffocating silence.

Dante was at the bottom of the stairs, a glass of scotch in his hand. Sofia was next to him, wearing white.

Of course she was wearing white.

She looked like a debutante. I looked like the widow at her husband's funeral.

Dante's jaw clenched when he saw me. His eyes darkened, cold and lethal. He knew exactly what I was doing.

"You look... somber," he said when I reached the bottom step.

"I'm grieving," I said, loud enough for the Underboss standing nearby to hear.

"Grieving what?" Sofia asked, clutching Dante's arm as if she owned it.

"My marriage," I said.

Dante gripped my elbow, his fingers pressing hard into the sensitive nerve. "Smile, Elena. Or we go back to the room."

"I'd prefer the room," I said.

He didn't let go. He dragged me into the crowd. For an hour, we played the part.

He held my waist; I didn't flinch. Men kissed my ring; I didn't pull away. But every time Dante turned his head, his eyes sought out Sofia. He tracked her across the room with the focus of a predator.

I needed air. I stepped out onto the terrace. The night air was cool against my flushed skin.

"You're embarrassing him."

I didn't turn around. I knew that voice.

Sofia walked up beside me. She leaned against the stone balustrade, her white dress glowing like a ghost in the moonlight.

"He hates that dress," she said.

"He hates a lot of things," I said. "He hates betrayal. Which is funny, considering."

Sofia laughed softly. "You think he's betraying you? Oh, Elena. He's just moving on. You were a rescue dog. He felt good saving you. But no one wants to sleep with a rescue dog forever. They want a pedigree."

My hand twitched toward the clutch purse under my arm. Inside was a small, folding tactical knife Enzo had given me.

"Careful, Sofia," I said, my voice low. "The ice is thin."

"He told me about the trafficking ring," she whispered, leaning closer, her perfume cloying and sweet. "He told me what those men did to you. How used you were when he found you. Do you really think a man like Dante Moretti wants seconds?"

It was a lie. Dante never spoke about that night. But she knew. Which meant he had told her. He had shared my shame with her to make himself look like a saint.

I stared at her, my vision blurring with red rage.

Sofia saw the look in my eyes. She glanced back at the glass doors. The party was in full swing. Dante was looking our way.

She smiled, a wicked, twisted thing.

"Watch this," she said.

She reached out and grabbed my wrist-the one holding the clutch. She dug her nails in. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, she snatched the clutch from me.

Before I could react, she popped the clasp and pulled out the knife.

It happened in a heartbeat. Before I could process what was happening, she slashed the blade across her own upper arm.

It wasn't a deep cut, but blood welled up instantly, stark and shocking against her white dress.

She screamed. It was a bloodcurdling, terrified shriek.

"Help! Dante! Help me!"

She threw the knife at my feet and collapsed to the ground, sobbing.

Chapter 4

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