Chapter 2

The penthouse was unnervingly quiet, the only sound the aggressive rip of packing tape being pulled from its roll.

I didn't take much. Just the clothes I bought with my own money. The jewelry my grandmother left me. The rest-the furs, the diamonds Dante had draped over me like gilded shackles-I left piled on the bed in a glittering heap.

The heavy turn of the front door lock was an acoustic violation, a sound that tore through the stillness.

Dante walked in, holding a bouquet of roses.

They were drooping. The petals were browning at the edges, curling in on themselves like dying things.

"For you," he said, breathless, offering them like a last-minute trophy. "The florist was closing."

In the language of flowers, dead roses meant it's over. The irony seemed to be a language he couldn't read.

"Thank you," I said, taking them. I didn't put them in water. I laid them on the marble counter, where they looked like an offering on a tomb.

He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over a chair. "God, what a day. The Commission is breathing down my neck."

He walked past me to get a glass of water. As he moved, the air shifted. The scent struck me instantly. Not his usual sandalwood cologne.

Vanilla and cheap musk. Her.

And there it was. On the collar of his crisp white shirt. A smudge of bright pink lipstick, a smear of betrayal that broadcast what he was too arrogant to hide.

He was a Made Man. An Underboss. And he was this sloppy? It was not a mere mistake; it was a declaration of my worthlessness. He either thought I was too stupid to notice, or worse, he didn't think I was brave enough to care.

"You have a stain," I said, my voice dangerously steady as I pointed.

He froze mid-sip. His hand flew to his collar, covering the mark. "Oh. That. Just a... spill. I bumped into a waitress at the deli. Clumsy girl."

"Take it off," I said. "I'll wash it."

He blinked, confused by my calm. "Elena, we have maids for that."

"I want to do it. A wife's duty, right?"

He smiled then, that charming, boyish smile that used to make the bones in my knees feel like water. "You're too good to me, baby."

He stripped off the shirt and handed it to me. The fabric was still warm from his skin.

I walked to the laundry sink. I twisted the tap until the water hissed, steaming and hot enough to raise blisters.

I grabbed a bar of rough soap and started to scrub.

I scrubbed the pink stain.

Scrub.

The memory of the fire five years ago rose like bile in my throat. The rival gang had firebombed my car. Dante had pulled me out, his hands burned and bleeding. He had held my soot-stained face, crying, promising he'd always keep me safe.

Scrub.

"I swear on my blood, Elena. You and me against the world."

Scrub.

"She means nothing, Elena. Just a dancer."

Scrub.

The fabric began to thin under my nails. The scalding water turned my skin a blotchy, angry red, but I couldn't feel the burn. I only felt the hollow ache spreading through my chest, a void where my heart used to be.

"Elena?" Dante's voice came from the doorway, hesitant. "Honey, you're going to ruin the shirt."

I didn't stop. I scrubbed harder, funneling every ounce of my betrayal into the grinding motion of my knuckles.

The fabric gave way with a loud, violent rip.

I stopped.

My hands were shaking. The collar was shredded, the threads hanging loose like unraveled lies. The stain was gone, but so was the shirt.

"I guess some stains don't come out without destroying the fabric," I whispered.

Dante walked over and wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. "Hey. It's just a shirt. You're tense. Pre-wedding jitters?"

I leaned back against him, closing my eyes. I felt his heart beating against my back. It was a steady rhythm. How could a heart so steeped in falsehoods beat with such a metronomic calm?

"Dante," I asked softly. "Are you a one-woman man?"

He kissed the top of my head. "Always. You know that. Since the day I pulled you from that fire."

"And oaths? Do they matter to you?"

"Omertà is my blood, Elena."

Liar.

I turned in his arms. I looked up at him, letting tears pool in my eyes. Not tears of sadness. Tears for the memory of the boy who had died in that fire, leaving this stranger in his place.

"Good," I said. "Because I take my oaths very seriously. Especially the one about betrayal."

He frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "What oath?"

"If you betray me, I marry another."

He laughed. He actually laughed, the sound vibrating in his chest. "You have a vivid imagination, baby. Who else would you marry? You're mine."

"Go shower," I said, pushing him away gently. "You smell like... the deli."

He kissed my forehead and walked away, whistling a tune I didn't recognize.

I looked down at my red, raw hands. The pain was grounding. It was a reminder that I was still a corporeal thing, even if my marriage was already a ghost.

I would keep my oath.

The Reaper was waiting.