Chapter 4

Vivia Genovese POV

The whiskey had settled into a heavy, numbing fog behind my eyes.

My father had banished me from the ballroom, ordering the maids to drag me out for fresh air, mortified by my unladylike thirst.

I collapsed onto a cold stone bench near the rose bushes, watching the shadows lengthen and blur into the coming night.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path.

My heart lurched against my ribs.

Dante?

I turned, hope flaring in my chest like a desperate flame.

But it wasn't Dante.

It was Silas.

He had followed me. Of course he had.

"Look at you," Silas sneered, stepping out of the gloom and into the pale garden light. "Drunk before sunset. You look pathetic, Vivia."

Lola was with him, naturally. She hovered at his elbow like a poisonous moth, feigning concern.

"Oh, honey," she cooed, her voice dripping with saccharine pity. "Is the wine too strong for you? Maybe you should have stuck to juice."

"Get out," I slurred, hating the tremor in my voice. "This is Genovese land."

"I'm family," Silas said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I came to collect the dowry keys. The trucks never arrived at my storage facility."

"Because I sent them back here," I said, lifting a heavy hand to point toward the garage. "You get nothing."

Silas's face flushed a deep, angry crimson. "You bitch. You tricked me."

He marched forward, towering over me, blocking out the fading light.

"You think you're so smart," he spat, his saliva hitting my cheek. "You think because you wear Dante's ring, you matter? He's probably with a real woman right now. Someone who knows how to do more than just look pretty in a dress."

"I am your Aunt now!" I shouted, the alcohol fueling a reckless fire in my veins. "Show some respect!"

Silas threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, grating sound.

Lola joined in, a high-pitched titter that grated on my nerves.

"Aunt?" Silas mocked, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. "You're a placeholder, Vivia. A political pawn. Do you really think The Reaper touches you? Do you think he actually wants you?"

His eyes roved over me with disgust.

"You're a virgin who knows nothing about men. If you act like a whore with that bottle, I won't even take you back as a mistress when Dante inevitably discards you."

The words cut deep.

Not because I wanted him back.

But because the cold knot of fear in my stomach whispered that he might be right about Dante.

Was I just a pawn?

Was I truly alone?

The humiliation of the wedding, the cold and empty bed, the pitying looks from the guests-it all crashed down on me in a suffocating wave.

Hot, angry tears spilled over my lashes, tracking through the powder on my cheeks.

"Leave me alone," I whispered, my voice breaking.

"Cry," Silas taunted, reaching out. "That's all you're good for."

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh to shake me.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the garden shifted. The air grew heavy, charged with a lethal static.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the trellis archway.

He moved faster than a man of his size had any right to move.

A hand-thick with muscle and scarred knuckles-shot out and clamped around Silas's wrist like a steel vice.

Silas gasped, his eyes going wide.

There was a sickening crunch of grinding bone.

"Who made my wife cry?"

The voice was a growl. Low. Vibration. Terrifying.

Dante.

He stood there, imposing and dark, still wearing his suit from the meeting. There was dust on his Italian shoes, and a spray of fresh blood on his crisp white cuff.

He didn't look at Silas.

He looked at me.

And his eyes were burning with a cold, focused rage that promised to incinerate the world.