Dante sat at the island, reading the paper. He didn't ask about the blood on my dress from last night. He didn't ask why I came home three hours after him.

To him, my pain was invisible. My absence, irrelevant.

"Make that soup," he said without looking up. "The minestrone. Sofia is feeling weak after the shock you gave her. She needs nutrients."

He wanted me to cook for the woman who framed me. He wanted me to nourish the body that held my stolen kidney.

He wanted me to serve my replacement.

"Okay," I said.

The word was hollow, a shell casing hitting the floor.

I made the soup. I chopped the vegetables with precise, rhythmic strokes. The knife hit the cutting board with a steady, lethal thud.

I simmered the broth. I poured it into a thermos.

"Here," I said, sliding it across the granite counter.

"Good," he said, taking it. "I'll be back late. Don't wait up."

He left to feed her.

The door clicked shut, and the silence he left behind was heavy, but it was no longer suffocating. It was clarifying.

I walked into the bedroom. I took the engagement ring he had given me-the replacement for the one he dropped. I placed it on the nightstand.

It looked cold there. Unfeeling.

I left the penthouse. I didn't take a suitcase. I had shipped my essentials to a secure locker two days ago.

I drove to our old high school. It was Saturday, and the grounds were empty. I walked to the old oak tree near the football field.

Carved into the bark, weathered by ten years of Chicago winters, was a heart. Elena + Dante.

I took a switchblade from my pocket. I didn't cry. I just carved. I scraped the bark until my fingers blistered, until the wood was raw and the names were nothing but sawdust on the ground.

I erased us.

Next, the bridge. Not the one where he let me fall. The Lovers' Bridge downtown.

I found the padlock we had fastened there when I was eighteen. It was rusted shut. I used bolt cutters. The metal snapped with a sharp, violent crack.

I threw it into the river. It made a tiny splash and disappeared into the murky depths.

Finally, the temple. The Buddhist temple in Chinatown where I used to pray for his safety every week. I had tied hundreds of red ribbons there over the years, begging the universe to keep Dante Moretti alive.

I walked to the prayer wall.

And there he was.

Dante. With Sofia.

I froze behind a pillar. She was drinking the soup I made.

"I paid the monks to clear the wall," Dante was telling her, his voice soft, a tone he used to save for me. "Make room for our new prayers. For our son."

I watched as a monk swept a pile of red ribbons into a trash bag. My ribbons. Ten years of my prayers, treated like garbage to make space for her lies.

I turned around and walked away. I didn't need to pray anymore. The gods were dead, and I was the one who had buried them.

I drove to O'Hare Airport.

I sat in the terminal, watching the planes take off. My phone felt heavy in my hand, like a grenade with the pin pulled.

It was time.

I opened Dante's contact. I attached the video of him and Sofia from the smoking lounge. I attached the medical file proving he authorized the kidney harvest. I attached the receipt from the abortion clinic three years ago.

I typed one message.

I know about the kidney. I know about the abortion. I know about the heir. I know you pushed me. I know you let me fall. I am done paying the tithe, Dante. You belong to her now. Don't look for me.

I hit send.

Then I blocked his number. I blocked Matteo. I blocked my father.

I took the SIM card out of my phone and snapped it in half.

"Flight 828 to Sicily, now boarding," the intercom announced.

I stood up. I walked down the jet bridge. I didn't look back at the city skyline. I didn't look back at the smoke and the ruin.

I was no longer the sacrifice.

I was the fire.

Chapter 7

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