Chapter 2

The next evening, Dante came home early.

I was curled up on the sofa watching a documentary about Venetian glassblowing when I heard his key in the lock. My bandaged hand rested on a throw pillow, the burn still pulsing with every heartbeat.

He walked in carrying a glossy black shopping bag. Prada. He set it on the coffee table in front of me like a peace offering laid at the feet of a queen he'd wronged.

"For you," he said. His voice was softer than usual. Almost careful.

I didn't reach for it.

He sat down beside me—closer than he'd been in weeks—and I caught the scent clinging to his shirt.

Not tuberose this time, but something deeper. Richer. Baccarat Rouge 540.

I recognized it because Sienna had posted an unboxing video last week, running the bottle across her collarbone, laughing about how it cost nearly five hundred dollars.

And here was my husband. The Don of the Moretti family. Drenched in his mistress's perfume, handing me a gift like that would erase the blisters on my skin.

I opened the bag. Inside was a candle. Jo Malone. The kind they give you free when you buy the real thing.

He was wearing her scent. And he'd brought me the leftover sample.

"You don't like it?"

"It's lovely," I said, and set it aside without looking at him.

Dante's jaw tightened. He caught my chin, turning my face toward him—a gentle touch that once made me melt.

"Elena. I know yesterday was... complicated. But I'm trying here." He leaned closer, his breath warm against my temple, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Can you at least meet me halfway? Talk to me. You're acting like I'm not even in the room."

Once, that low voice in my ear would have made my pulse stutter. I would have turned into him, let him kiss the apology onto my lips, let his hands wander until I forgot why I was angry.

But my hand still throbbed beneath its bandages. I could still feel the ghost of that locked door handle under my palm. The heat of the car. The way he hadn't even looked back.

"I'm not acting like anything," I said, pulling free from his grip. "I'm watching TV."

"You've been cold ever since I walked in the door—"

"I'm tired." I stood, letting his hand fall away. "Think I'll turn in early."

"Elena." His voice dropped to that dangerous register, the one that made capos twice his age lower their eyes. "Don't walk away from me."

I paused in the doorway. Looked at him over my shoulder.

The old Elena would have trembled. Would have come back to the couch, curled into his side, whispered sorry sorry sorry until he deigned to forgive her.

"Goodnight, Dante."

I didn't wait for his response.

The moment I slid under the covers, he followed me in.

The mattress dipped. His body pressed against my back, one arm sliding around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His lips found the curve of my neck—that spot below my ear that used to make me gasp.

"Elena." His voice was rough. Low. "Don't shut me out."

His hand slid beneath my nightgown, palm flat against my stomach, fingers splayed possessively across my skin. Warm. Familiar. The way he'd touched me a thousand times before.

His kiss lasted barely three seconds before I shoved him off—hard enough that he stumbled back.

He snapped on the bedside lamp, chest heaving. "What the hell? Don't tell me you forgot what day it is."

Dante and I had been trying for a baby. Around this time each month, he always made a point to "do his duty."

I rolled onto my side, facing away from him. "I'm too tired. Goodnight."

Hearing his own excuse—the same words he'd used on me countless times—thrown back at him left him speechless.

He stood there for a moment, jaw working. Then he grabbed his pillow and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

I knew he'd sleep in the guest wing for the next few days.

Once, that would have sent me spiraling. I would have lain awake all night, heart aching, wondering what I'd done wrong.

But that night, I slept better than I had in months.

The next morning, I stopped my boss Catherine in the hallway.

"That divorce attorney you mentioned last year—the one who handled the Romano situation. Do you still have her number?"

Catherine's eyebrows rose. But she was old Sicilian, three generations deep in families like ours. She knew better than to ask questions.

"I'll text it to you before lunch."

……

By day nine of separate bedrooms, Dante made his move.

I woke to the smell of bacon. Found him in the kitchen—this man who had soldiers to taste his food, who hadn't touched a stove in eight years of marriage—standing over a pan of scrambled eggs.

He didn't say anything when I walked in. Just slid a plate across the counter, poured me coffee, black, the way I liked it. His eyes tracked my every movement, searching for something.

I didn't give it to him.

The eggs were overcooked. Rubbery. I ate them anyway, alone at the counter, then grabbed my keys and left without a word.

That afternoon, my phone buzzed. Marco De Luca—Dante's underboss—had posted photos from his engagement party.

I scrolled through them in my office. Champagne towers. A seven-tier cake. The happy couple beaming for the camera.

And there, in the background of nearly every shot: Dante with Sienna draped on his arm, laughing up at him like she had every right to be there. Like she was the Donna of the family instead of me.

She was wearing a coat I recognized. Charcoal cashmere, custom-cut, with hand-stitched buttons I'd chosen myself. I'd given it to Dante for our fifth anniversary.

Last month, I'd asked him to wear it to my father's birthday dinner. He'd snapped that he'd lost it on a business trip to New York. Called me obsessive for bringing it up twice.

And here it was. Draped over Sienna Vale's shoulders like a trophy.

I stared at that photo for a long time. At her smile. At his hand on her lower back.

Then I screenshot the image. Opened Instagram. Posted it to my story with a simple caption:

Picked out every stitch of that coat for my husband. Funny how it ended up on the backup.

Three seconds later, my phone exploded.

Dante's name. Calling.