Chapter2

"Put it on."

Dante walked into the bedroom and tossed a black evening gown onto the bed without a second glance.

Not a request. A command.

"You're coming with me to the Mancini dinner tonight."

He fastened his cufflinks, still not looking at me. "Remember your place. Don't make a scene in front of the elders like last time."

I picked up the gown, my fingertips going pale against the fabric.

A scene? Last time, I had simply asked where he was going during dinner. He had frozen me out for the rest of the night.

But I nodded, keeping my voice soft.

"Of course, Dante. I won't disappoint you."

I put on the dress and did my makeup with care.

The woman in the mirror looked elegant. Composed. Every inch the perfect mafia wife.

Nobody would know her husband had threatened her just hours ago. Nobody would know she was carrying a secret inside her—one that could get her disposed of.

The dinner was held at the Mancini estate.

Dante took my arm and smiled pleasantly at every guest who raised a glass to us. His hand rested on my waist—intimate-looking to everyone around us, but to me it felt like a shackle.

Then I saw her.

Valentina swept in on ten-centimeter red-soled heels, surrounded by admirers, radiating the self-possessed glow of a peacock. Tonight, the attention clearly wasn't on the Mancini daughter—it was on her.

My gaze locked onto her neck and stopped.

A diamond necklace. The design was audacious—the centerpiece a deep blue oval sapphire, encircled by white gold worked into the shape of entwined thorns. The tips of those thorns were razor-sharp, as if they might at any moment break through the wearer's skin.

That was my design.

Three years ago, I had drawn that sketch with a full heart and brought it to Dante.

He'd glanced at it, locked it away in his safe, and told me coldly: "That kind of aggressive design doesn't suit you. Don't draw things like that anymore."

He hadn't locked it away.

He had kept it to give to someone else.

Valentina seemed to sense my eyes on her. She deliberately straightened her spine, let her fingers drift over the sapphire, and smiled at me—a slow, deliberate smirk.

She came toward us and raised her glass to Dante with a coquettish laugh.

"Dante, the champagne here is wonderful tonight—even better than the bottle you sent me last time."

Dante gave a mild, noncommittal hum.

Valentina wasn't finished. She turned to me with exaggerated sweetness, tilting her neck forward as if to give me a better view, and announced loudly:

"Clara, do you like this necklace? Dante had it custom-made for me as a love token. He said only a woman like me could wear something with this much power."

The room went quiet. Every eye in the hall shifted toward us.

My blood hit boiling.

That was my work—my child, conceived out of sleepless nights of passion—and this woman was wearing it on her throat, calling it Dante's gift, his declaration of love.

"That's my design."

My voice wasn't loud. In the dead silence of that hall, it didn't need to be.

Valentina blinked, then dissolved into laughter. "Clara, have you had too much to drink? A design at this level—how could you possibly—"

"It's called The Thornbird. I drew it three years ago." I cut her off and kept my eyes fixed on Dante. "He locked it in his safe. He didn't have it made for you. He stole my work and gave it to you."

The hall erupted. Whispers spread like fire. I could feel the stares—shock and contempt both pointing our way.

Dante's expression went pitch-black. He spun toward me, and there was nothing in his eyes. No warmth. No doubt. Only rage.

Crack.

The slap hit me so hard I staggered, my knees nearly buckling. Half my face went numb in an instant, my ears ringing.

"Are you done making a fool of yourself?" Dante stood over me, his voice like frozen water. "Spinning lies just to cause a scene? This is a piece by the master Giovanni. Valentina paid a great deal for it."

I stared up at him, one hand pressed to my cheek.

Giovanni? The designer who retired years ago?

He was lying. Standing in front of everyone, turning black to white without even flinching.

"Dante, that piece is—"

"Shut up." He cut me off with a snarl, then turned to the guests and arranged his face into an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry, everyone. My wife hasn't been well lately. She's been having these episodes. Please forgive us."

He turned back to me, and in a voice meant only for my ears, he said: "You are a curse on this family. I brought you here to hold your head up, and you pull a stunt like this—making a spectacle of yourself in front of everyone."

"I didn't imagine it—" My jaw was clenched, my eyes burning, too stubborn to let the tears fall.

"Someone." Dante didn't wait to hear the rest. He crooked a finger at the bodyguards in the corner.

Two broad-shouldered men in black moved in immediately.

"Take my wife upstairs to the bathroom on the second floor. Let her calm down. Nobody lets her out until I say so." Dante's instructions were delivered without emotion.

"Dante! You can't—!" I pulled against the hands on my arms.

I was carried like something unwanted and deposited inside the second-floor bathroom. The lock clicked behind me.

I slid down against the cold marble of the vanity, pressing my fingers to my burning cheek.

I didn't cry.

Tears wouldn't solve anything.

Dante had gone mad. He'd publicly destroyed my dignity to protect that woman, and he hadn't lost a moment's sleep over it.

I stood up, went to the sink, and turned on the tap. The rush of water drowned out the noise from downstairs.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Half my face was swollen. My eyes were bright—frighteningly bright.

Valentina, you're celebrating too soon.

I crouched down and examined the drain cover. Old estates like this one always had drainage problems.

Sure enough—tangled in the filter was a coil of black hair and debris.

I reached in and worked it loose until I had a thin wire in my hand.

This wire was going to get me out of here.

Did you really think locking me in here was enough, Dante?

You locked away my work. You ground my dignity into the floor. Don't blame me for flipping the whole table.

The game starts now, husband.