Chapter 8

Dante Moretti POV:

The atmosphere in the Grand Ballroom was thick enough to choke on.

Crystal chandeliers glared down, dripping light onto the silk, velvet, and superficial smiles of Chicago's underworld elite.

The air didn't just smell of expensive champagne; it reeked of desperate ambition and concealed fear.

Sofia held court at the head table, basking in the attention.

She wore a custom Versace gown that draped over her baby bump like liquid gold.

She looked radiant.

She looked like a queen.

But she wasn't my queen.

I nursed the scotch in my glass, ignoring the burn as a phantom ache throbbed in my chest.

I had left Elena locked in her room.

I had no choice. She was dangerous. She was spiraling out of control.

She pushed a pregnant woman down the stairs, I repeated the mantra in my head. She is sick. She needs help.

But the memory of Elena's face at the bottom of those stairs refused to fade.

She hadn't looked angry.

She had looked... hollow. Dead.

"Dante," Sofia purred, her fingers claiming my arm.

"You're frowning. It's my birthday. Smile for the cameras, darling."

I forced the corners of my mouth upward, a muscle twitching in my jaw.

"Happy birthday, Sofia."

The orchestra swelled.

A waiter approached with a massive, tiered cake.

Suddenly, the heavy side doors crashed open.

A young man in a courier uniform stumbled in, looking woefully small among the wall of tuxedos and made men.

Security moved instantly to intercept him, hands reaching for holsters.

"I have a delivery for Mr. Dante Moretti!" the kid shouted, his voice cracking with terror.

"Priority one! From Mrs. Moretti!"

The room went instantly, violently silent.

The music died.

Elena.

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

What had she done now? Was it a bomb? A severed head?

I stood up, the chair scraping loud against the floor.

"Let him through," I commanded.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea.

The kid walked up to the head table, his hands trembling visibly.

He held out a plain white box tied with a stark black ribbon.

"She said to give it to you directly, sir."

I reached for it.

Sofia grabbed my wrist, her nails digging sharp crescents into my skin.

"Dante, don't," she whispered, her eyes wide with genuine panic.

"It's probably something nasty. Let the guards handle it."

"It's from my wife," I said, my voice cold as I pulled my arm free.

"She sent a gift, just as I asked."

I took the box.

It was surprisingly light.

"Where is she?" I asked the courier, my gaze locking onto his.

"She... she left, sir. She got into a black sedan with New York plates right after she gave me this."

New York plates.

Falcone.

A chill like ice water ran down my spine.

"Open it, Dante!" someone shouted from the back, breaking the tension.

"Let's see what the Lady sent!"

Laughter rippled through the room, nervous and cruel.

I untied the black ribbon.

My fingers felt numb, clumsy.

I lifted the lid.

There was no bomb.

There was just a stack of papers.

And a small digital voice recorder.

I picked up the top document.

SEPARATION AGREEMENT.

It was signed.

Elena Falcone.

And next to it... my signature.

A perfect forgery.

I stared at it, confusion clouding my brain.

She had left me.

She had actually forged my consent just to escape me.

Sofia peered into the box over my shoulder.

"Divorce papers?" She let out a breathy, relieved laugh.

"Well. That's a gift, isn't it? Finally freeing you."

"There's more," I muttered, my throat tight.

I shoved the agreement aside.

Underneath lay a medical file.

Stamped with the logo of the State Street Clinic.

I frowned.

I pulled it out.