Chapter 2

Elena POV

The hallway of my in-laws' house smelled of roast beef and stagnant air-the scent of old secrets.

It was Sunday. Mandatory family dinner. The day I had to drag Leo across town to sit at a table with the very people who had orchestrated my misery.

I told them I needed to use the restroom. Instead, I drifted toward the study.

The heavy oak door was cracked open just an inch.

I heard the voice of my father-in-law-a man I had respected, a man I had cried with.

"You are being reckless, Dante."

The name hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.

Then came the voice of the man pretending to be Matteo.

"Elena suspects nothing. She is a simple woman, Papa. She does what she is told. She mourns. That is all she knows how to do."

I pressed my spine against the wall, flattening myself into the shadows.

My stomach turned over-a violent wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the heavy food and everything to do with the betrayal.

Simple.

That was what he thought of me. A simple doll to be placed on a shelf, dusted off once a month, and kept in the dark.

"And Gina?" his father asked, his voice low. "She spends money like she is the Queen of Sicily. If the Commission finds out you are impersonating a Capo... if they find out Matteo is dead and you took his rank..."

"They won't find out. Gina is happy. I am happy. The money is good."

"And the boy? What about your son?"

"He has Elena. She is a good mother. She doesn't need a husband. She needs a hero to cry over. I gave her that."

I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle the scream clawing its way up my throat.

He hadn't died to save the Family. He hadn't died to protect us.

He had faked his death.

Because Matteo, the high-ranking Capo, had died of a drug overdose. And Dante, the lowly Soldier, saw an opportunity.

He took his twin's identity. He took his twin's salary. He took his twin's wife.

He abandoned me and Leo to poverty and grief so he could play King in another woman's castle.

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling violently.

I was wearing the black dress I had worn for three years. The cheap fabric felt like sandpaper against my skin.

I thought about the nights I held Leo while he cried for his father. I thought about the humiliating jobs I took-scrubbing floors, sewing clothes-just to buy Leo new shoes because the "pension" wasn't enough.

My mind flashed to the Don. Salvatore.

He had sent me a gift once, anonymously. A toy train for Leo. A heater for the apartment when the landlord refused to fix it.

I had returned them, terrified of owing a favor to the Devil.

I was such a fool.

Heavy footsteps approached the door.

I moved quickly, slipping into the bathroom and silently locking the lock.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

The woman staring back was pale, her eyes rimmed with red. She looked broken.

But beneath the black fabric, beneath the layers of grief, something was igniting.

It wasn't anger. Anger is hot, volatile. This was cold. This was ice.

I washed my face with freezing water. I didn't put on makeup. I didn't fix my hair.

I unlocked the door.

I wasn't going to run. I wasn't going to hide.

I was going to go back to that table. I was going to eat their food.

And I was going to watch them choke on their lies.