"We need to show a united front," he declared, tearing the Maserati down the highway. "My enemies think I'm weak because I got shot. They need to see the King and his Queen."

I stared out the window at the blurred lights of Chicago. "Is that what I am to you? A Queen?"

"You will be," he said, distracted. His phone was buzzing on the console. Sofia. He ignored it, but his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

The phone rang again. And again.

Finally, he answered. "Sofia, I told you, tonight is-"

He stopped. His face went gray.

"Put her on," he snarled, his voice dropping to a lethal growl. "If you touch her, I will flay you alive."

He listened for a moment, then swerved the car so violently across three lanes of traffic that my head slammed against the window. Stars exploded in my vision.

"Dante!" I gasped, clutching the dashboard to steady myself.

"The Cartel has her," he said, his voice pure ice. "They took Sofia from the safe house. They have her on the 18th Street Bridge."

He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't apologize for the U-turn. He floored the accelerator, and the engine roared like a dying beast.

We reached the bridge in ten minutes. It was an industrial wasteland, dark and abandoned. A black van was parked in the center.

Three men stood by the railing. One of them held Sofia. She was sobbing, a knife pressed to her throat.

Dante screeched to a halt. He jumped out, gun drawn.

"Let her go!" he screamed.

I got out slowly. My head was spinning from the impact against the window, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

The Cartel leader, a man with a scar running through his eyebrow, laughed. "The great Dante Moretti. We heard you were getting married. But you seem more worried about the mistress."

"Take me," Dante bargained. "Let the women go."

"No," the leader said. "We want territory. And we want to see what you value."

He signaled to his men. Two of them grabbed me before I could react. They dragged me to the railing, opposite Sofia.

Now we were both dangling over the edge. Below us, the Chicago River was a black, freezing churn of ice and filth.

"Choose," the leader commanded, his voice carrying over the wind. "You can save one. The other goes for a swim."

Dante's gun wavered. He looked at Sofia, weeping and trembling. Then he looked at me. I stood straight, silent. I wouldn't beg. Not now. Not ever.

"Don't be stupid," Dante shouted. "Elena is trained! She can handle herself! Sofia is sick! She just had surgery!"

"Choose!" the leader roared. He shoved Sofia slightly. She screamed.

Dante lunged.

He didn't lunge for the gunman. He didn't lunge for me.

He threw himself at the man holding Sofia, tackling him away from the edge, shielding her body with his own.

The man holding me smiled. "Wrong choice."

He shoved me.

I fell backward. The wind rushed past my ears. I saw the bridge receding. I saw Dante on the ground, covering Sofia, checking her for injuries. He didn't even look over the railing.

I hit the water.

The cold was a physical blow, a thousand knives stabbing every inch of my skin. The current seized me, dragging me down into the dark.

I didn't fight it at first. I let the river take me. I thought about letting go. It would be so easy.

Then I saw Enzo's face in the dark. Seven days.

I kicked. I clawed at the water. I fought my way to the surface, gasping for air that smelled of oil and rot.

I dragged myself onto the muddy bank a mile downstream. I was shivering so hard my teeth felt like they would shatter.

I hailed a cab, dripping wet, bleeding from my head. The driver looked terrified but took me to the hospital when I threw a wad of wet cash at him.

I was in the ER, wrapped in thermal blankets, when Dante finally showed up three hours later.

He walked in, looking relieved but annoyed. "Thank God. I knew you made it."

"You knew?" I whispered. My voice was gone.

"Elena, it was a tactical decision," he argued, pacing the small room. "I knew you were a strong swimmer. You were captain of the swim team in high school. Sofia can't swim. If I hadn't grabbed her, she would have drowned."

"I hit my head, Dante. I could have been unconscious when I hit the water."

"But you weren't," he said, dismissing the possibility with a wave of his hand. "You're fine. Look at you. You're a survivor. That's why you're my wife."

"I'm not your wife."

"We'll fix the engagement party," he said, ignoring me. "I'll make it up to you. There's a charity auction tomorrow. I'll buy you anything you want. The whole catalog. Okay?"

He reached out to pat my shoulder, the wet blanket dampening his expensive suit.

"I saved her life, Elena. I had to. You understand duty."

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

"Yes," I said softly. "I understand duty perfectly now."

I understand that my duty to you is dead.

"Get some sleep," he said. "Tomorrow we go shopping. You'll feel better."

He left. Probably to go check on Sofia's trauma.

I pulled the blanket tighter.

Tomorrow was the auction. Tomorrow was Day Six.

One more day. Just one more day, and I would burn his world to the ground.

Chapter 5

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