"The doctors say it will scar," he said, refusing to meet my eyes, staring instead at the sterile linoleum floor. "But we can fix it. Later. Laser surgery. Skin grafts. I don't care what it costs. I'll pay for the best in the world to erase it."

"Why are you here?" I asked. My voice was a ruin, a dry rasp against my throat.

"Sofia... she was hysterical about her arm," he mumbled, wringing his hands. "She cares so much about beauty. I knew you were strong, El. I knew you could handle the pain."

"I am strong," I said, the words tasting like ash.

"So you let me burn."

"I didn't let you burn! I saved her because she's weak!"

"Go," I said.

"Elena-"

"Go to her. She probably needs you to blow on her boo-boo."

He stood up, the guilt hardening into defensive anger. "Fine. I'll come back when you're not being a bitch."

He stormed out.

I waited three hours.

When the coast was clear, I discharged myself against medical advice.

The bandages were thick, bulky beneath my shirt. Every movement was a negotiation with agony, the fabric pulling at raw, sensitized skin.

I didn't go home.

Instead, I took a cab to a subterranean parlor in Queens. The neon sign in the window buzzed with a dying flicker: INK.

The artist was a massive wall of a man with a viper tattooed across his face. He took one look at my bandages and raised a pierced eyebrow.

"Fresh burn," he grunted, wiping his hands on a rag. "I can't tattoo over that. It's raw meat. You'll get an infection."

"Not on it," I corrected, my voice steel. "Around it. And over the edges where the skin is intact."

He scoffed. "It'll hurt like a motherfucker. The nerves are all fired up."

"Do it."

I sketched what I wanted on a cocktail napkin.

An Old English M.

Sharp edges. Gothic curves. A letter meant to look like a blade.

I wanted it right on the shoulder blade. I wanted the ink to bleed into the burn, to frame the destruction.

He worked for two hours.

The needle was a mercy. The physical, searing pain drowned out the chaotic noise in my head. It was purifying. It was a ritual.

When I finally looked in the mirror, the burn was still there, ugly and angry red. But the M framed it. It claimed the damage.

Matteo.

Mine.

Murder.

It could mean anything. It meant everything.

I returned to the penthouse as the sun began to set.

My phone pinged in my pocket.

Matteo: Wheels down. I'll see you at the altar.

I smiled. It was a cold, sharp thing.

"Tomorrow," I whispered to the empty room.

The door to the guest suite opened.

Dante.

Again.

He had a bottle of whiskey in his hand, the amber liquid sloshing against the glass. He was drunk.

"I shouldn't have left you," he slurred, stumbling toward me. "I'm sorry, El. I'm so sorry."

He reached out, his coordination gone, and pulled the collar of my shirt down before I could stop him.

He saw the fresh bandage. He saw the black ink peeking out from the inflamed edges.

The M.

His eyes softened, glazing over with a pathetic mixture of hope and booze. He looked like he might cry.

"Mine," he whispered.

He traced the letter with a shaking finger, misinterpreting the Gothic script entirely. "You tattooed 'Mine' on you. You... you still love me."

He leaned in, pressing his clammy forehead against mine. "I know I messed up. But this proves it. We belong together. After I settle Sofia... we'll be together."

He tried to kiss me.

I placed my hand flat against his chest.

I pushed.

"Get out, Dante," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "You have a big day tomorrow. You have to give the bride away."

He chuckled, stepping back, oblivious to the ice in my veins. "Right. Matteo's orphan. God, this is going to be a circus. Just play the part, Elena. Be the supportive sister-in-law. For me."

"I will play my part perfectly," I promised.

He left, whistling a tuneless melody.

I went to the closet.

I pulled out the garment bag.

It wasn't the modest, pastel bridesmaid dress Dante thought I had bought.

It was white. Silk. Completely backless.

It was a weapon.

Chapter 8

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