Chapter 3

I stormed into the drawing room where Dante's aunt, the formidable Matriarch of the Moretti family, was sipping tea from delicate porcelain.

"Where is it?" I demanded.

She looked up, her expression one of bored indifference.

"Lower your voice, Gianna. You are being hysterical."

"My cello," I said, my hands shaking at my sides. "It's missing from my room. Who took it?"

"Perhaps the maids moved it for cleaning," she said dismissively, returning her attention to her cup.

"No one touches that instrument but me," I snapped. "Where is Dante?"

"He is with Sofia," she said. "She is very shaken."

Of course he was.

I turned on my heel and marched down the hall to the East Wing. Sofia's domain.

The guards at the door stepped forward to stop me.

"Move," I ordered, channeling every ounce of authority my father, the Don of New York, had instilled in me. "Or I will have my brother burn this hallway down with you in it."

They exchanged a nervous glance, hesitating just enough.

I pushed past them and threw open the double doors.

Sofia was in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows. She looked like a tragic heroine from a bad opera, pale and fragile.

But Dante wasn't sitting in the chair by the bed.

He was coming out of the ensuite bathroom, buttoning his cuffs. His hair was wet, darker than usual against his skin.

He had showered here. In her room.

The implication hit me like a physical blow.

"What are you doing here?" Dante asked, his voice weary and edged with irritation.

"My cello is gone," I said, my voice trembling. "And I think she has it."

I pointed a shaking finger at Sofia.

Sofia's eyes went wide, feigning innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about, Gianna. Why would I want your cello? I don't even play."

"You take everything else that belongs to me," I said, venom coating my words. "Why stop there?"

"Enough," Dante snapped. "You are being paranoid."

"Am I?"

I walked over to the large walk-in closet in the corner of the room.

"Gianna, stop," Dante warned, stepping forward.

I threw the closet doors open.

Rows of designer dresses. Shoes. Bags. The scent of expensive perfume wafted out.

And there, shoved in the back behind a stack of hat boxes, was the case.

My case.

I gasped and pulled it out. It was heavy. I unlatched it with trembling fingers.

When I lifted the lid, a scream tore from my throat.

The rich, dark wood of the cello was gouged. Deep, ugly scratches marred the varnish. The bridge was snapped clean in two.

It looked like someone had taken a key and carved hate into the wood.

"You bitch," I whispered.

I turned around. Sofia was watching me, a tiny, triumphant smirk playing on her lips that only I could see.

I didn't think. I didn't calculate.

I crossed the room and slapped her.

The sound was like a gunshot in the silence.

Sofia's head snapped to the side. She let out a piercing shriek.

Dante moved faster than I could track.

He grabbed my wrist, twisting it painfully behind my back. He shoved me away from the bed with brutal force.

"Don't you ever touch her," he roared. His eyes were black pits of fury.

"She destroyed it!" I screamed, pointing at the cello. "Look at it, Dante! That was my mother's!"

Dante glanced at the ruined instrument. He looked back at Sofia, who was holding her cheek, tears streaming down her face.

"It's just wood, Gianna," he said coldly. "It's trash. You can buy another one."

I stared at him.

Just wood.

"It is not just wood," I said, my voice breaking. "It is my voice. And she broke it."

"She didn't do it," Dante said, his denial absolute. "She has been in bed all day."

"She is lying!"

"I will order an internal investigation," Dante said, his tone final. "Now get out. Before I forget that you are a Vitiello and treat you like the soldier you are acting like."

He turned his back on me. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently touched Sofia's red cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her.

He was apologizing to the monster.

I grabbed the handle of my broken cello case and dragged it out of the room.

The wheels clicked on the marble floor.

Click. Click. Click.

Like the countdown of a bomb.