2

Chapter 2

When I pushed the front door open, Dante was standing outside.

He leaned against his car like he'd timed it perfectly—suit jacket buttoned, posture relaxed, phone in hand. The picture of a man who believed everything was still under control.

"Elena," he said, straightening when he saw me. "There you are."

The porch light cast his face in warm yellow. For a split second, muscle memory kicked in—the part of me that used to feel relief just seeing him, just being near my chosen partner.

It passed.

"We're done," I said.

The words came out clean, without rehearsal.

Dante blinked. Then he laughed softly, like I'd told him a bad joke. "What?"

"I'm breaking the engagement," I repeated. "Tonight."

He stepped closer, voice dropping into that familiar coaxing tone, the one designed to soothe a woman's distress. "Did my mother say something again?"

There it was. The assumption. That I was upset, not finished.

"She's impossible," he continued, already reaching for my hand, his warmth trying to wrap around me. "I know she can be harsh. But you know how she is—she just wants what's best for me. For us. For the family."

"You're tired," he decided, his certainty absolute. "You had a rough day. Let me take you out. We'll eat, you'll calm down, and tomorrow you'll see how dramatic this sounds."

"I'm not dramatic," I said. "I'm done."

He sighed, indulgent. "Right. And I'm the villain."

Then, as if proving how considerate he was, he opened the passenger door. "Get in. I already made a reservation."

He ignored my protests and guided me into the car, his strength easily overwhelming my resistance.

The restaurant was one of those places the Five Families loved—dark wood, low light, expensive wine, and the kind of staff who recognized Dante's authority before he spoke.

The host smiled too widely. "Mr. Moretti. Your table's ready."

Dante guided me through the room with a hand at my back like I belonged to him, like I was his claimed woman.

Then I saw her.

Isabella Romano sat in a booth across the way, surrounded by a small circle of family members—two senior strategists, a high-ranking enforcer, a couple of Council assistants who loved proximity to power. She wore a pale dress and looked effortlessly luminous in candlelight, the perfect picture of a desirable woman.

Her gaze landed on Dante.

And on me.

Her smile didn't move, but something in her eyes tightened—possessive, displeased. She was territorial.

Dante's hand pressed more firmly against my back, his presence wrapping around me like a claim.

So that was it.

We were seated, but I barely heard the waiter. My attention drifted to the table beside us, where two associates were talking without lowering their voices—because in these places, they never imagined a woman mattered enough to listen.

"Moretti really is something," one of them said, amused. "Bringing Elena out tonight."

The other chuckled. "Yeah, because Dante got territorial. He heard Isabella getting a little too friendly with that visiting boss from Chicago. So he dragged his long-term fiancée here to make a point. Classic move."

"Honestly, I don't know why Elena's still around," the first man added. "She's skilled, sure, but she's... not Isabella."

My stomach stayed strangely calm. Like the shock had already passed and what remained was clarity—cold, surgical.

Dante leaned back in his chair, posture relaxed, as if he hadn't just dragged me here like a chess piece.

"Order whatever you want," he said, then glanced pointedly toward Isabella's booth.

A waiter came over with menus. Isabella's laughter floated across the room, sweet and light. Dante's jaw ticked.

When the waiter asked for our order, Isabella's voice carried—loud enough to be heard.

"I'll have the oysters," she said brightly. "And the lobster risotto with caviar."

Dante's expression changed instantly.

He turned in his seat, eyes sharp. "Isabella. You can't eat that. You have that shellfish sensitivity."

"Oh," she said, lips pouting slightly. "I forgot."

Dante spoke to the waiter. "Bring the oysters here instead."

The waiter nodded, uncertain, and walked away.

I stared at Dante.

Dante pushed the plate directly in front of me when it arrived.

"There," he said, loud enough for Isabella's table to hear. "Eat."

My mouth curled.

I let out a slow breath—almost a laugh.

Because I couldn't eat shellfish.

Not mildly allergic. Not "slight discomfort." The kind of reaction that made my throat close and my body revolt. The kind I'd told him once, years ago, when we'd first started seeing each other.

But Dante never remembered details that didn't serve him.

He only remembered Isabella.

"What's wrong?" he asked, irritation flashing in his dark eyes.

I met his gaze, and in the reflection I saw the old me—the woman who used to swallow discomfort to keep the peace, to keep her man happy.

Then I saw the new me, standing behind her like a shadow with claws.

I didn't touch the food.

Dante leaned closer, lowering his voice like a threat disguised as affection. "Don't embarrass me."

Across the room, Isabella watched, her smile delicate and satisfied—like she'd successfully pulled a string, like she'd proven who really mattered to the future Don.

Dante reached for my hand under the table and laced his fingers through mine. Then he lifted my hand and kissed my knuckles, slow, deliberate, a show for an audience.

His lips were warm. My skin felt cold.

He smiled at me, eyes bright with manufactured tenderness. "You're being difficult tonight, Elena."

I didn't pull away. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Instead I said softly, "Do you even remember what I'm allergic to?"

His expression flickered—confused, annoyed—then he dismissed it. "You're fine."

I looked at the oysters, glistening and dangerous.

Of course he thought I was fine. I'd spent years making sure my discomfort never inconvenienced him.

Isabella's chair scraped back. She pressed a hand to her abdomen with practiced delicacy.

"I don't feel well," she said, voice fragile. "I think I should leave."

Dante's entire body shifted.

He stood so fast his chair jerked backward. "Isabella—"

"I'm sorry," she whispered, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I don't want to ruin your dinner."

"You're not," Dante said immediately, already reaching for her coat. His irritation from minutes ago vanished like it had never existed. "You're pale. Did you eat something? Are you reacting?"

He was at her side in seconds, murmuring, fussing, protective in a way I'd begged for in smaller moments and never received. His presence wrapped around her, soothing, comforting.

He glanced back at me once, like an afterthought.

"Elena," he said, impatient. "Get a cab. I'll call you later."

Later.

Again.

I sat there as he guided Isabella out of the restaurant like she was the only fragile thing in the world, like his woman was the only person who deserved his protection.

The oysters remained untouched in front of me, garnish wilting, the smell making me feel sick.

I stood, put on my coat, and walked out without speaking to anyone.

When I got home, the apartment was quiet in that aching way it always was after Dante left—like the space had learned not to expect him, like even the walls knew he'd never truly claimed this as ours.

I didn't cry.

I turned on every light.

Then I opened the closet and started pulling things out.

Tickets from family events tucked into a box. Photos from charity galas. The expensive watch he'd given me for my birthday. A scarf that still smelled faintly like his cologne.

I carried it all to the trash.

One armful after another.

The past didn't fight back. It was only objects. Only proof I'd once believed in something.

I found a small leather journal in the back of a drawer—my old strategy notebook from my training days, pages filled with neat handwriting. On the inside cover, Dante had written in black ink:

For when you're Consigliere. I always knew you'd get there. —D

I stared at it for a long moment.

Then I ripped the page out and dropped it into the bin.

I didn't need expired promises to prove I was worth something.

I walked into the bedroom, opened my suitcase, and began to pack—slowly, neatly, like closing a wound.

This time, I wasn't leaving in anger.

I was leaving because I finally understood something simple:

Love that has to be performed isn't love.

It's a role.

And I was done acting.