Chapter 2

"Seven days," Enzo said.

His voice was a low rumble against my ear, a lifeline thrown into the abyss. "You sever ties with him completely. You walk out of that life, and you are mine. I will burn the city down before I let him touch you again."

"Seven days," I agreed.

But Dante didn't come back to the clinic. Not once.

I spent three days staring at the sterile white wall, feeling the phantom ache of a missing part of myself and the very real throb of a missing heart. When I was finally discharged, a driver came for me. Not Dante. Just a soldier named Marco who kept his gaze fixed rigidly on the road, refusing to meet my eyes.

When I got to the penthouse, Dante was there. He was buttoning his cuffs, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror that reflected the Chicago skyline he ruled.

"You're back," he said, addressing my reflection rather than turning to face me. "Good. Get dressed. We have the Grand Ball tonight."

I stood there, instinctively clutching my side. "I just had surgery, Dante."

"It was just an appendix, Elena. Don't be dramatic." He adjusted his silk tie, his tone bored. "This is important. Your father is wavering on the territory expansion. I need to secure his loyalty tonight."

He turned around finally and pointed to a box on the bed. "I bought you a dress. Wear it."

It was a backless emerald gown. Beautiful, yes, but cruel. It would cover the fresh incision, but the corset was unforgiving. It was designed to display me, not comfort me.

I put it on. I painted my lips blood red. I put on the mask of the dutiful Mafia Princess.

The ballroom was a sea of black tuxedos and designer silk. The air smelled of cloying perfume and thick fear. As we walked in, the music stopped. All eyes turned to the Don and his shadow.

Dante gripped my elbow. His fingers dug into my flesh, possessive and bruising.

"Smile," he murmured against my temple. "You look like a funeral."

"Maybe I am at one," I whispered back.

He ignored me and steered me to the center of the room. He signaled the band to cut the sound. He took a microphone.

"Friends, Family," Dante's voice boomed. "Tonight is a night of celebration. I want to honor the woman who has stood by me through fire and blood."

He turned to me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box.

The room gasped. My father, standing near the bar, looked smug, swirling his scotch. This was the deal. My hand in marriage for his soldiers.

Dante opened the box. A massive diamond glittered under the chandelier lights. It was beautiful. It was cold. And I knew, with a sickening jolt, that it cost exactly one kidney.

He began to kneel.

"Dante!"

The scream shattered the moment.

Sofia stood at the top of the grand staircase. She was wearing white, looking like a frail, tragic angel. She swayed on her feet, clutching her stomach-the stomach that now held my kidney.

"Dante, I..." Her eyes rolled back in her head. She collapsed, tumbling down the first two steps before a guard caught her.

Dante didn't hesitate.

He didn't look at me. He didn't close the ring box. He simply dropped it.

The velvet box hit the marble floor with a dull thud, the ring bouncing out and spinning away like a forgotten promise.

Dante was already running. He shoved guests aside, sprinting up the stairs to where Sofia lay.

"Get the car!" he roared, scooping her up in his arms. "Clear the way!"

He carried her past me. He was so close I could smell his cologne mixed with her floral scent. He didn't even see me. I was a ghost in a green dress.

The ballroom was silent. Hundreds of people stared at the empty space where the Don had been, and then they looked at me.

Elena Vitiello. The woman left standing at the altar before she even got there.

I looked up at the staircase. Sofia's head was resting on Dante's shoulder. Her eyes were open.

She looked right at me. Her lips curved into a small, venomous smile. She mouthed five words that hit me harder than the surgery.

You will never be Queen.

I looked down at the ring on the floor. I didn't pick it up. I stepped over it.