Chapter 6

Elena Falcone POV

The silence inside the car was suffocating, heavier than a gunshot.

Dante didn't hit me.

He didn't scream.

He just drove, his knuckles bleached white against the leather steering wheel, his jaw working so hard I expected his molars to shatter.

Beside me, Sofia was still whimpering-a low, pathetic sound that grated against my nerves like sandpaper on raw skin.

"We're going to the hospital," Dante said finally, his voice a rough gravel. "To check on Sofia. And you."

"I don't need a doctor." I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of neon. "I need a lawyer."

"You need a psychiatrist," he shot back.

We pulled up to the emergency entrance.

Moretti soldiers were already there, securing the perimeter like a presidential guard.

Dante got out and opened Sofia's door. He helped her out with a tenderness that made bile rise in my throat.

I opened my own door.

My legs felt heavy, as if my veins were filled with lead.

We walked into the private waiting area.

The moment the automatic doors slid shut behind us, Sofia's crying ceased.

She turned to me.

Her face wasn't tear-stained anymore. It was twisted in a vicious sneer.

She raised her hand and slapped me.

The sound echoed sharply off the sterile walls.

My head snapped to the side. The sting was sharp, hot, and strangely grounding.

"You bitch!" Sofia shrieked, ramping up the volume for the benefit of the nurses outside. "You tried to kill my parents! You want my baby dead!"

Dante stepped between us, catching Sofia as she feigned a collapse.

He looked at me.

His eyes were two chips of glacial ice.

"I thought you were better than this, Elena," he said, disappointment dripping from his tone. "I thought you had class. Attacking old people? Assaulting a pregnant woman?"

I touched my cheek. It was throbbing.

And then it bubbled up inside me.

A laugh.

It started in my chest, a dark, jagged thing, and clawed its way out of my throat.

I laughed until my ribs ached. I laughed until tears streamed down my face, mixing with the dust and the dried blood from the chandelier accident.

"Class?" I gasped, struggling for air. "You talk to me about class while you parade your mistress around like a queen? You talk to me about honor while you bury your own wife?"

"She's hysterical," Sofia sobbed into Dante's chest, burrowing closer. "Dante, I'm scared. My stomach... it hurts."

Dante's face went pale.

He scooped her up into his arms, his focus shifting entirely to the woman who had just assaulted me.

"Get a doctor!" he roared at the staff.

He turned his back on me.

"Go home, Elena," he threw over his shoulder. "Get out of my sight before I do something I regret."

He carried her down the hall.

I stood alone in the waiting room.

The elevator dinged.

I stepped inside.

The metal doors slid shut, cutting off the sight of my husband rushing another woman to safety.

I leaned my forehead against the cool steel and closed my eyes.

I didn't cry.

I was done crying.

I went back to the Villa.

I slept for twelve hours. It was the sleep of the dead.

I dreamed of college.

I dreamed that Dante was standing under the oak tree on campus, holding a sketchbook I had dropped. He was smiling, that crooked, charming smile that had made me fall in love with the devil.

I will never let anyone hurt you, Elena.

The dream twisted.

The oak tree morphed into a gallows.

Dante was the executioner.

And the rope around my neck was woven from Sofia's hair.

I woke up gasping.

The sun was streaming through the windows, but the room felt cold.

I heard noise downstairs. Heavy boots. The sound of furniture being moved.

I put on a silk robe and walked out into the hallway.

Movers were carrying boxes up the grand staircase.

Dante stood at the landing, directing them.

"Careful with that vanity," he ordered. "It's an antique."

I recognized the vanity.

It was from the guest house.

"What is happening?" I asked, my voice raspy from sleep.

Dante looked up. There was no guilt in his eyes, only irritation that I was awake.

"Sofia's parents are in the hospital because of your stunt," he said. "She can't stay at the safe house alone. She needs medical monitoring."

He gestured to the room next to ours. The Master Suite.

"She's moving in," he said.

"Into the Villa?" I asked.

"Into the main wing," he corrected. "Closer to me. In case of emergencies."

He was moving his mistress into the bedroom next to his wife.

He was erasing the last boundary.

"I see," I said.

"It's temporary," he added, as if that made it better. "Just until the baby comes."

"Of course," I said.

I turned around and walked back into my room.

I locked the door.

I didn't scream. I didn't throw things.

I walked to the closet and pulled out my travel bag.

I wasn't staying another night under this roof.

The lease on my soul had finally expired.