His name was Marco, a greasy man who usually moved stolen watches for the lower-level soldiers. He was surprised to hear from the Don's wife, but greed has a way of silencing questions.

I laid them out on the bed. The Hermès Birkins. The diamond tennis bracelets. The chinchilla coat Dante bought me after he killed three men in a sit-down and needed to wash the blood off his conscience with money.

"I want cash," I told Marco. "And I want it off the books."

He looked at the pile, calculating. "This is dangerous, Mrs. Vitiello. If the Don finds out I bought his gifts..."

"He won't," I said, my voice hollow. "He doesn't look in my closet anymore."

Marco left with three duffel bags. I was left with a stack of rubber-banded cash thick enough to choke a horse. It felt dirty in my hands, but it was the only currency that mattered now.

My phone pinged. A notification from Instagram.

It was Sienna. She wasn't private. She wanted to be seen. The photo was a selfie taken in a bathroom mirror. She was wearing a silk robe, her hand resting on the small bump of her stomach. In the background, hanging on the hook, was a limited-edition leather jacket.

Dante's jacket.

The caption read: Safe and sound. HisHeir FutureQueen.

I didn't cry. I think my tear ducts had dried up along with my hope.

Giulia arrived an hour later. She was the wife of Dante's Underboss, a fierce woman with hoop earrings and a switchblade in her purse. She was the only person in this life who looked at me and saw Elena, not just "The Wife."

"Are we going shopping?" she asked, eyeing the empty hangers in my closet.

"No," I said. "We are going for a drive."

I directed her away from the city, away from the territory controlled by the Outfit. We drove to the suburbs, to a quiet, nondescript civilian cemetery. The grass was overgrown, and the headstones were modest granite slabs.

"Elena, what the hell are we doing here?" Giulia asked, parking her Range Rover. "The Vitiello mausoleum is at Saint Michael's. You know that. There's a spot next to Dante's father."

I got out of the car. The wind bit at my exposed neck.

"I am not being buried with them," I said.

I walked into the office. The caretaker was an old man who smelled like mothballs. I paid for the plot in cash. When he asked for the name on the deed, I didn't hesitate.

"Elena Rossi," I said. "My maiden name."

Giulia grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. "Elena, stop this. Dante will kill everyone in this building if he sees this. You are a Vitiello. Why are you buying a grave?"

I turned to her. The pain in my abdomen was a dull roar now, a constant companion.

"Because I have a month to live, Giulia. Pancreatic cancer."

The color drained from her face. She looked like I had slapped her.

"No," she whispered. "No. We go to the best doctors. We go to Switzerland. Dante has the money. He can fix this."

"Dante told me to die quietly," I said.

Giulia let out a sound that was half-sob, half-scream. She tried to drag me back to the car. "We are going to the hospital. Now. I am calling him."

I grabbed her hands. They were shaking.

"If you call him, I will never speak to you again. I want to die as Elena Rossi. Not as the barren wife of the Don. Not as the woman he cheated on. Please, Giulia. Give me this."

She stared at me, tears streaming down her face, ruining her mascara. She saw the resolve in my eyes. She saw the exhaustion.

"Okay," she choked out. "Okay, baby. I got you."

We walked back to the car. I felt lighter. I had a place to rest where the shadow of the Vitiello empire couldn't touch me.

But then the pain hit. It wasn't a dull roar anymore; it was a knife twisting in my gut. My knees buckled. The gravel rushed up to meet me.

"Elena!" Giulia screamed.

I tried to stay awake. I tried to tell her not to take me to the Family hospital, where they report everything to Dante. But the darkness was heavy and sweet.

The last thing I heard was Giulia screaming into her phone.

"Get your ass home, you son of a bitch! She is dying!"

Chapter 2

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