Chapter 3

The call came through while I was still staring at my laptop screen, pretending to work.

Dante's voice was tight, controlled—the voice he used in sitdowns when a deal was about to go sideways.

"The coat," he said. "I can explain."

"Can you?"

"It was cold that night. Sienna didn't bring a jacket. I was being polite."

"Polite." I let the word sit there. "You told me you lost it in New York."

A pause. I could hear him breathing, recalibrating. Dante Moretti didn't get caught off guard. He was the one who laid traps, not the one who stumbled into them.

"It turned up," he said finally. "Slipped my mind."

"Clearly."

"Elena." His voice softened, sliding into that low register he used when he wanted something. "Don't make this bigger than it is. It's a coat. I'll buy you ten more if that's what this is about."

My stomach twisted. Once, that voice would have melted me.

"It's not about the coat, Dante."

"Then what—"

"Was there something else?"

Silence. I could almost hear his jaw tightening.

"Marco's engagement party," he said. "I needed a plus-one. It was Family business. Don't make this into something it isn't."

"I'm not making it into anything."

Another pause. He wasn't used to this—no tears, no accusations, no desperate questions. Just flat, empty nothing.

"I'm picking you up at seven." His tone hardened. "Marco's throwing a proper dinner tonight. Be ready."

The line went dead before I could respond.

At seven fifteen, his black Maserati pulled up outside my office.

I opened the back door and froze.

Sienna was already in the passenger seat. My seat. She turned, burgundy silk catching the streetlight, lips curving into that smile I'd come to recognize. The smile of a woman who believed she'd already won.

"Elena!" She leaned between the seats, close enough that her perfume—that cloying tuberose—wrapped around me. "What a fun surprise. Dante didn't mention you were joining us!"

I looked at Dante. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, but he didn't turn.

"Last minute," I said, and slid into the back.

The drive was twenty minutes of Sienna filling every silence—about the venue, about Marco's fiancée's dress, about some new rooftop bar the Family had just acquired. Every few sentences, she'd touch Dante's arm, his shoulder, laughing at things that weren't funny.

Dante kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, trying to catch my eye.

I watched the city lights blur past and gave him nothing.

The private room at Carbone was already full when we arrived.

Marco met us at the door. "Boss." His eyes shifted to me, softening. "Mrs. Moretti. Honored you could make it."

At least someone remembered who I was.

Dante's palm settled on my lower back as we entered—warm, possessive, his fingers pressing just hard enough to remind me I was his. A gesture that used to make me lean into him. That used to make me forget we were surrounded by men who would kill on his word.

I kept my spine straight. Let him guide me to our seats without a word.

The dinner blurred past. Toasts. Laughter. I smiled when expected, raised my glass when prompted.

The old Elena would have softened under his touches.

This Elena counted the minutes until she could leave.

Halfway through the main course, the restaurant manager appeared at Dante's elbow.

"Mr. Moretti, sir—those bottles you and Miss Vale put aside last month. The '89 Burgundy. Shall I open them for the table?"

The conversation around us stuttered. Forks paused mid-air.

Dante's hand froze on my thigh. "That was for the Calabrese deal. Business."

"Of course, sir." The manager smiled, oblivious. "Miss Vale mentioned she'd been looking forward to it."

I reached for my water glass. Took a slow, deliberate sip.

"Open them," I said, my voice pleasant. "No sense letting good wine go to waste."

I let the silence satisfying for a moment. Then I stood.

"Excuse me."

Dante caught up with me in the hallway, his hand closing around my elbow. "Elena. Those bottles—we closed a big deal. That's all it was."

I didn't pull away. Didn't look at him.

I just lifted his hand off my arm, finger by finger, and walked into the restroom without a word.

When I came back, Dante was leaning toward Sienna, his arm stretched in front of her, blocking the wine glass someone was trying to pass her way.

Shielding her.

Protecting her.

The memory slammed into me so hard I had to grip the back of an empty chair.

Two years ago. A dinner just like this one. They'd pressured me to drink, insisting it was tradition. I told them I was allergic.

Dante didn't shield me. He pressed his hand down on my shoulder, leaned close to my ear, and murmured, "One drink, sweetheart. Don't embarrass me. Worst case, we'll get your stomach pumped."

I drank it. To keep the peace. To be the wife he wanted.

That night, I burned with fever. Two days later, I woke up in the ER, my body seizing with cramps. The doctor told me I'd been one month pregnant.

The baby was gone.

Dante burst into my hospital room. He didn't ask how I felt. Didn't hold my hand.

"I told you not to go," he'd said. "But you just had to force your way into a man's business. This is what you get for not listening."

The memory burned behind my eyes.

I walked back to the table. Picked up my purse. And left without a single word.

The front door slammed open an hour later.

Dante stormed in, his face dark with fury. He found me on the couch, watching TV, utterly calm.

"What the hell was that?" His voice echoed through the living room. "Walking out in the middle of dinner? In front of my men? In front of Marco? You wanted to humiliate me—is that it?"

I didn't look away from the screen.

"Elena!" He stepped in front of the TV, blocking my view. "Answer me!"

I said nothing.

His breathing grew ragged. He loosened his tie with a violent jerk.

"Fine. You want to play it this way?" A bitter laugh escaped him. "Maybe we should just end this. Get a divorce."

This was the second time he'd said it.

The first was a year ago—a misunderstanding. He'd thought I'd gone through his phone. I'd dropped to my knees beside him, tears streaming, swearing I'd never make him angry again.

But now, I looked up at him. Met his eyes.

"Okay."

The word landed like a bullet.

Dante went still. The anger drained from his face, replaced by something I'd never seen before.

Confusion. Then disbelief.

"What did you say?"

"I said okay." My voice was steady. Quiet. "Let's get divorced."

He stared at me. His chest rose and fell, but no words came.

For the first time in eight years, Dante Moretti had nothing to say.