Chapter 7

Elena Falcone POV:

For the next two days, I haunted my own home like a specter.

I clung to the shadows, avoiding the main wing. I avoided the dining room where silence sat heavy at the table.

Instead, I barricaded myself in my studio, painting canvas after canvas in shades of absolute black.

But ghosts cannot hide forever. Eventually, they must face the living.

I was descending the back service stairs, seeking a glass of water, when Sofia intercepted me.

She had draped one of my favorite silk shawls over her shoulders, claiming my warmth as her own.

She looked healthy. Radiant, even.

"You're still here?" she asked, her fingers trailing possessively over the mahogany banister. "I thought you would have fled back to New York by now."

"Step aside, Sofia."

She moved closer instead, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr.

"You know, Dante is so stressed," she whispered, feigning sympathy. "He worries constantly about the baby. It's sweet, really. Considering."

"Considering what?"

Her lips curled-a viper finally revealing its fangs.

"Considering it isn't his."

The world seemed to stop. "What?"

"Oh, please," she laughed, a light, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. "Dante is too noble for his own good. He thinks he is saving me from the Outfit. He doesn't realize the father is actually Sergei."

Sergei. The Russian enforcer who had led the ambush against us.

My stomach churned violently.

"You are carrying a Russian soldier's child," I hissed, my voice trembling. "And you are letting Dante claim it as the heir to the Chicago Outfit?"

"It's poetic, isn't it?" she mused, her eyes dancing with malice. "The Moretti fortune will pass to the Bratva. And Dante will thank me for the privilege."

"I'm going to tell him," I said, taking a threatening step forward.

"Who will he believe?" she countered, her gaze gleaming with triumph. "The unstable, barren wife? Or the fragile, frightened mother of his 'son'?"

Just then, the heavy thud of the front door echoed from below.

Footsteps approached.

Dante was home.

Sofia's mask shifted instantly. Terror replaced arrogance.

She threw herself backward, seizing the railing.

"No, Elena! Don't!"

She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my flesh, and yanked me down with her.

We tumbled down the last three steps in a tangle of limbs.

My head cracked against the banister.

Pain shattered behind my eyes, exploding into white stars.

Sofia landed on the thick plush carpet, screaming bloody murder.

"My baby! She pushed me! Dante, help!"

The foyer seemed to burst open with noise.

Dante rushed in, his weapon already drawn.

He took in the scene: us at the bottom of the stairs.

He saw me struggling to stand, clutching my throbbing skull.

He saw Sofia curling into a protective ball, sobbing hysterically.

He holstered his gun and fell to his knees beside her.

"Sofia!"

"She pushed me," Sofia wept, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She said she wanted it dead."

Dante looked up at me.

There was no love in his gaze. No conflict. No hesitation.

Just pure, unadulterated disgust.

"Get up," he spat.

I hauled myself up using the railing, the room spinning around me.

"She told me..." I began, my voice raspy.

"Silence!" His roar shook the walls.

"I am done with your jealousy, Elena. I am done with your lies."

He helped Sofia to her feet with infinite tenderness.

"Go to your room. If you step foot out of it before I allow it, I will lock you in the cellar myself."

He guided Sofia away, murmuring soft comforts into her hair.

I stood there, swaying, watching them disappear into the living room.

"It's over," I whispered to the empty, echoing foyer.

I climbed the stairs.

I did not go to the master bedroom.

I went to the safe hidden in the back of the closet.

I retrieved the separation papers I had drafted days ago.

I took out the medical file from the private clinic. The ultrasound of the empty womb. The invoice for the termination of a pregnancy he never knew existed.

I placed them all inside a plain white box.

I packed my paints. I packed my brushes.

I packed nothing else. No clothes. No jewelry.

I was leaving everything Dante Moretti had ever given me.

Dante appeared at the open door an hour later.

He didn't cross the threshold. He stood in the frame, a looming shadow.

"Tonight is Sofia's birthday gala," he said stiffly, his voice devoid of warmth. "You will not attend. You are a liability."

"Understood," I said, not lifting my eyes from my sketchbook.

"However," he continued, shifting his weight. "Appearances must be maintained. You will send a gift. Something personal. To show the Family there is no bad blood."

I paused.

"A gift," I repeated slowly. "You want me to send a gift to your mistress."

"It is for the Family, Elena. Do it."

He turned on his heel and walked away.

I looked at the white box resting on my desk.

"A gift," I murmured.

I picked up a pen and wrote a note on the card stock.

To Dante. The truth will set you free.

I called a private courier service.

Ten minutes later, I handed the box to the young man waiting at the gate.

"Deliver this to the Grand Ballroom at exactly 9:00 PM," I instructed, pressing a hundred-dollar bill into his palm. "Hand it directly to Mr. Moretti."

He nodded, pocketed the cash, and drove off.

I walked back toward the Villa, but I did not go inside.

I walked through the garden, slipped out the back gate, and slid into the black sedan waiting in the alley.

My brother, Rocco, was behind the wheel.

I didn't look back.