Chapter 8

Dante POV

The atmosphere of the art gallery was suffocating.

White walls. White wine. White noise.

Sofia was clinging to my arm, her manicured nails digging into my suit jacket as she dragged me from one canvas to another.

"Look at this one, Dante!" she squealed, gesturing wildly. "It represents the duality of man's soul."

It looked like someone had vomited red paint on a canvas and had the audacity to charge fifty thousand dollars for it.

"It's exquisite," I lied, taking a long sip of champagne to wash away the taste of boredom.

I checked my watch.

It had been three days since Elena had come home covered in mud.

Three days of silence.

She was either in the Penance Room or her bedroom. I hadn't checked.

I had told the guards to let her stew. She needed to learn that her tantrums had consequences.

But the silence was... loud.

Usually, I could feel her presence in the house. A tension. A warmth. A simmering resentment.

Now, the Villa felt sterile.

"Dante?" Sofia pouted, tugging at my sleeve. "You aren't listening."

I looked down at her.

She was beautiful, objectively. Perfect symmetry, perfect skin.

But her voice grated on my nerves like sandpaper.

She was needy.

Elena was never needy.

Elena was steel wrapped in silk.

Even when she knelt in the snow, her eyes had burned with defiance. I missed that fire.

Suddenly, panic seized my chest. It was a sharp, cold grip around my heart, tightening until I couldn't breathe.

I looked across the room.

I saw a flash of dark hair. The familiar curve of a neck.

"Elena?" I said aloud.

I pushed Sofia aside and strode through the crowd, ignoring the gasps as I shoved past patrons.

I grabbed the woman's shoulder and spun her around.

A stranger looked up at me, terrified.

"I'm sorry, Don Vitiello!" she stammered, shrinking back.

I let her go, my hand dropping to my side.

My heart was hammering against my ribs.

What the hell was wrong with me?

"Dante!" Sofia was back, hanging on me like a parasite. "What is it?"

"Nothing," I snapped.

I looked at Sofia.

I saw the greed in her eyes. The vanity.

I felt a sudden wave of repulsion.

I wanted to go home.

I wanted to see Elena.

I wanted to see her glare at me.

I pulled out my phone and glanced at the screen.

Calendar: 10th Wedding Anniversary. Tomorrow.

Guilt, sharp and unfamiliar, pricked me.

I had pushed her too far this time.

The business with Luca-it was a bluff, of course. I'd never actually kill the vegetable. But she didn't know that.

I needed to fix this.

"Matteo," I barked at my Consigliere, who was shadowing me from a discreet distance.

"Yes, Don Vitiello."

"Prepare the Villa. Tomorrow night."

"I want lilies," I commanded. "Thousands of them. Stargazer lilies."

Matteo raised an eyebrow. "For the mistress?"

"No," I growled. "For my wife."

"I'm going to buy her that diamond necklace she looked at in Milan. I'm going to reinstate her."

"I'll send Sofia to the Hamptons for a week," I added, already walking toward the exit.

Elena will cry. She will thank me. We will start over.

I smiled, imagining the look of relief on Elena's face.

She would be waiting for me. She always was.