Dante POV
The boardroom table was mahogany, polished to a mirror shine that reflected the faces of the twelve men waiting for me to bleed.
Capos. Underbosses. Men who had sworn loyalty to my father, and then to me. But in our world, loyalty is a currency that devalues the second you show a fracture.
And right now, I looked fractured.
"The shipment from Colombia is stalled," Rocco said, tapping a thick, calloused finger on the wood. "The unions are demanding a renegotiation. They say the Paletti name doesn't carry the weight it used to."
"The unions will do as they are told," I said. My voice was calm, even as my hand beneath the table curled into a fist so tight my nails bit into the palm. "Or they will be replaced."
"Like your wife?"
The silence that followed was absolute. Suffocating.
It was Marco who spoke. He was young, ambitious, and lethally stupid.
I turned my head slowly, locking eyes with him. "What did you say?"
"We see the papers, Dante," Marco said, leaning back, feigning a confidence he didn't possess. "The *Chicago Tribune* says she's missing. The blogs say she ran away. The Feds are sniffing around because they smell blood in the water. If you can't keep a woman in your bed, how are you going to keep the Feds out of our warehouses?"
I stood up. My chair scraped harsh and loud against the floor.
I walked over to Marco. His smile faltered, then vanished.
"Elena is not missing," I lied. The words coated my tongue like acid. "She is dealing with a personal family matter. She is grieving."
"Grieving what?" Marco challenged, stupid to the bitter end. "Her marriage?"
I seized the back of his skull and drove his face into the mahogany.
Bone crunched. A spray of crimson marred the polished wood.
"She is grieving the loss of anyone who speaks her name with disrespect," I whispered into his ear as he groaned, choking on his own blood.
I straightened my suit jacket, smoothing the lapels. "Meeting adjourned."
They filed out. They were afraid, yes. But fear is a temporary drug. Respect is the cure. And I was losing respect by the hour.
Arturo stayed behind.
"You can't punch your way out of this, Dante," he said quietly. "I told you. Years ago. I told you that Elena D'Angelo was the glue. Her family's money legitimized us. Her grace softened us. You treated her like furniture."
"Find her," I said, staring at the smear of red on the table. "I don't care what it costs. Find her."
*
Elena POV
The police officer in Portugal was polite. He held a flyer with my face on it—a photo from three years ago.
The girl in the picture looked like a child. Scared. Obedient. A stranger.
"*Senhora* Veretti?" he asked. "Do you know this woman? Her family in America is looking for her. They say she is... unstable."
I looked at the photo. Then I looked at the officer. I didn't blink.
"She looks sad," I said, my voice steady. "But I do not know her. I am a photographer. I am here for the light."
He nodded, accepted the coffee I offered, and left.
I closed the door and leaned against it, my heart hammering against my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage.
Dante was reaching. He was flailing. Calling me "unstable" was his way of discrediting anything I might say if I ever chose to surface.
I walked into my studio. It was finished.
The walls were stark white. The floors were clean concrete. And on every wall, my life hung in frames.
Tonight was the opening.
I wore a simple black dress. No diamonds. No silk. Just cotton. Around my neck, on a thin leather cord, hung the melted lump of gold.
My "Hope" pendant.
Ciro was already there, pouring wine for the locals who had gathered. He looked up when I entered, and his smile made the air in the room feel lighter.
"You look like a warrior," he said.
"I feel like a fraud," I admitted. "What if they see right through me? What if they see the mob wife underneath?"
"They see the art, Hope. Look."
He pointed to the center of the room.
A crowd was gathered around the main piece. *The Price of Admission*. The macro shot of the melted wedding ring, jagged and raw.
"It is violent," an old woman murmured. "But beautiful."
A man in a suit approached me. "Is this for sale?"
"Everything is for sale," I said. "Except the artist."
By the end of the night, half the collection was sold. I held the check in my hand. It wasn't millions. It wasn't dirty money laundered through a strip club. It was two thousand euros.
It was the most honest money I had ever earned.
I walked over to the donation box I had set up by the door. *For the Local Children's Art Fund*.
I dropped the check inside.
"You are giving it all away?" Ciro asked, watching me.
"I don't need it," I said. "I have enough to live. I just needed to know I could make it."
We walked out onto the terrace. The ocean was black and restless.
"You know," Alessia, my landlady, said, joining us with a cigarette in hand. "You finally look like you fit your skin, Hope. Before, you looked like you were wearing someone else's clothes."
I touched the gold lump at my throat. It was warm against my skin.
"I had to burn the old clothes," I said.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A secure message from Lucia.
*The transfer is complete. The 'clean' assets you took—the bonds, the jewelry money—are now in a blind trust. Dante can't touch a cent. And Elena... the Committee in Chicago has called for a vote.*
I looked up at the moon.
Dante was losing his kingdom because he couldn't control his queen.
"Are you okay?" Ciro asked.
"I'm better than okay," I said, turning my back on the ocean to look at him. "I'm dangerous."
