"Matteo's woman?" He wiped a mock tear from his eye. "Elena, honey, you need to work on your lying. Matteo doesn't do relationships. He doesn't do feelings. He has 'associates' and he has enemies. That's it."

He stepped closer again, his confidence restored. "Look, I get it. You're hurt. You want to sting me. But saying you're sleeping with the Don? That's dangerous. If he hears you using his name to get a rise out of me, he'll kill you."

"He knows," I said. I picked up a magazine from the coffee table, flipping a page casually. My heart was hammering against my ribs, but I wouldn't let him see it.

"Sure he does," Dante said, condescendingly. "Just like he knows you're squatting in his guest room. Look, Matteo told the Family he's bringing a fiancée to the gala. Some orphan girl he found in Europe. A nobody. He needs a wife for the optics, a mute decoration who won't ask questions."

My fingers tightened on the glossy paper. An orphan. A nobody. That was the cover story Matteo had created for me?

"He asked me to give the bride away," Dante continued, checking his watch. "Since she has no family. Can you imagine? Me, walking some stranger down the aisle while you sit in the pews pouting."

He didn't know. Matteo hadn't told him the name of the bride.

The cruelty of the irony almost made me smile.

"You should go, Dante," I said. "Sofia is probably wondering where you are."

"Don't be like that," he sighed. "I'm doing this for us. Once she remembers, I can let her down gently. Then we get back to the plan."

"The plan," I repeated flatly.

"Yes. You, me, the wedding. Just... later." He pulled his phone out as it buzzed. His face softened instantly. "I have to go. She's asking for ice cream."

He walked to the door. "Stop this charade, Elena. Go back to your apartment. I'll text you."

He left.

I didn't go back to my apartment.

Instead, I called Luca, Matteo's Consigliere.

"Ms. Vitiello," Luca answered on the first ring.

"I need Matteo's measurements," I said. "And the address of his tailor."

"The Don does not require-"

"I am his fiancée," I cut him off, my voice turning to steel. "I am buying him a suit for the wedding. Unless you want to explain to him why his bride is unhappy?"

A pause. "I will text you the details."

I spent the afternoon at a bespoke atelier in Manhattan, running my hands over Italian wool and charcoal silk. I chose a suit that was sharp, dark, and dangerous. Just like Matteo.

When I returned to the penthouse, my phone pinged with a notification from the security system at my old apartment-the one I shared with Dante, though he rarely slept there.

Motion Detected: Front Gate.

I pulled up the camera feed.

Dante was there. He was tossing garbage bags onto the curb.

My stomach dropped. I zoomed in.

Those were my clothes. My books. The painting I had made for his birthday.

My phone rang. It was Dante.

"I had to clear out the master bedroom," he said, sounding breathless. "Sofia is coming over. If she sees your stuff, it might trigger a confused episode. I just put them in the garage."

"I'm looking at the camera, Dante," I said, staring at the grainy image of my life being treated like refuse. "They are on the curb."

"The garage was full," he lied smoothly. "I'll buy you new stuff. Better stuff. Gucci, Prada, whatever you want."

"Let them rot," I said. "Less baggage."

I hung up.

Two days later, I was walking out of a boutique in the city when a voice called out.

"Sister-in-law!"

I froze.

Sofia was standing there, clinging to Dante's arm. She looked angelic in a white sundress, a bandage still on her temple. She was beaming at me.

Dante looked like he wanted to vomit.

"Elena!" Sofia chirped, dragging Dante over. "Dante told me everything! That you're Matteo's girl! Oh my god, we're going to be family!"

Dante's eyes pleaded with me. Play along. Don't break her.

"Hello, Sofia," I said.

"We were just going to celebrate," she said. "I remembered my favorite color today! It's blue! We're going to that Hot Pot place. You have to come!"

"I don't think-" Dante started.

"Nonsense!" Sofia grabbed my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "Matteo is busy, right? You shouldn't eat alone."

I looked at Dante. He was sweating through his shirt.

"Sure," I said, a dark curiosity taking hold. "I love Hot Pot."

The restaurant was a known front for the Triads, but the food was excellent. We got a private room.

Sofia ordered the broth. "Extra spicy! I remember I used to love it when my mouth burned!"

Dante went sheet pale.

Dante had a severe ulcer. Spicy food was liquid razor blades for him. He used to make me cook everything bland.

"Dante loves spicy too, right baby?" Sofia asked, looking at him with wide, adoration-filled eyes.

Dante swallowed hard. "Yeah. Love it."

The pot arrived, bubbling like a cauldron of red oil and chilies.

Sofia piled meat into Dante's bowl. "Eat up!"

Dante ate.

I watched him. I watched the sweat bead on his forehead. I saw his hand clench under the table until his knuckles turned white. I saw the grimace he tried to hide every time he swallowed.

He was poisoning himself to keep her happy. To keep the lie alive.

He looked at me. I was eating from the non-spicy side.

He texted me under the table.

Just playing the part. Don't read into it.

I looked at the text, then at him.

He was in physical pain for her. He wouldn't even endure an awkward conversation for me.

"Oh no!" a waiter tripped near our table.

He was carrying a refill pitcher of boiling spicy broth.

He stumbled. The pitcher flew.

It was heading right between me and Sofia.

Time seemed to slow down into a blur of motion.

I saw Dante's eyes widen. I saw his muscles coil.

He didn't look at me.

He lunged.

Chapter 2

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