Chapter 8
Elena Vitiello POV:
The wind outside was howling. The temperature was ten degrees below zero. The gale force winds whipped sharp shards of ice directly into my face, cutting my skin like tiny razors.
Within seconds, the heavy snow soaked through the shoulders of my coat. I forced my legs to move, stepping high over the deep snowdrifts, walking away from the cabin lights toward the dark edge of the pine forest. Fear of freezing to death clawed at my chest, but the desperation to escape pushed me forward.
I reached the tree line. I pressed my back against the thick, rough trunk of a massive pine tree to block the wind. My hands were already shaking violently from the cold. I dug into my boot and pulled out the backup phone.
The tiny screen glowed weakly in the absolute darkness.
A message from Isabella sat on the screen: Chopper holding at grid coordinate. Ready for immediate dust-off.
My fingers were stiff and turning red. I clumsily tapped the keys: 10 minutes.
Crunch. Crunch.
The heavy, unmistakable sound of boots breaking through the frozen snow crust came from behind me.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I shoved the phone deep down into the side of my boot. I spun around, pressing my spine flat against the tree bark.
A massive shadow broke through the curtain of falling snow. Dante. He wasn't wearing a coat. He was only wearing his thin black dress shirt, the fabric whipping wildly in the wind. The panic of losing control over me had completely blinded him to the freezing temperature.
He closed the distance in two massive strides. His large hands shot out, grabbing both of my shoulders. His grip was brutal, his fingers digging into my muscles with enough force to bruise the bone.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" he roared, his voice tearing through the wind. His blue eyes were bloodshot, wild with rage.
I didn't push him away. I let him shake me. I looked up at his handsome, furious face. I looked at him the way you look at a corpse.
"Let go of me," I said. My voice was quiet, broken by the wind, but every word was a poison dart.
"You are out of your mind," he snarled, pulling me closer.
"Your shirt," I said, my voice dead flat. "It smells like her cheap vanilla perfume. And it smells like blood."
Dante’s entire body jerked. His grip on my shoulders loosened for a fraction of a second. A flash of guilt, of being caught, crossed his eyes before he buried it under his anger.
"I run a syndicate, Elena," he spat, trying to justify the blood. "It was business. I had to handle a meeting."
The corner of my mouth twitched up into a bitter, humorless smile. "Was the meeting in a bed?"
His face twisted with pure fury. He slammed me hard against the rough bark of the pine tree. The impact knocked the breath out of my lungs. He lowered his head, his face coming down fast, trying to force his mouth over mine to shut me up. It was the only way he knew how to solve a problem—physical dominance.
I fought back violently. I twisted my neck, turning my face away. His cold, hard lips scraped painfully against my frozen cheek.
I brought my knee up hard and fast, driving it directly into his stomach.
Dante let out a sharp grunt of pain. He stumbled back a step, his hands dropping from my shoulders.
I pushed myself away from the tree. I raised my shaking arm and pointed a stiff finger back through the snow, toward the glowing windows of the cabin. "Go back to your dog, Dante."
He wiped the melting snow from his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes turned into black, bottomless pits. "You are my wife. You will never leave me."
He stepped forward again, dipping his shoulder, preparing to throw me over his back and carry me inside by force.
"Ahhhhhh!"
A high-pitched, blood-curdling scream sliced through the howling wind.
It came from the second floor of the cabin. It was Sofia.
Dante’s forward momentum stopped instantly. His head snapped toward the cabin. His eyes locked onto the brightly lit window on the second floor.
I stood two feet away, watching his face. I saw the raw, unfiltered panic explode in his eyes. I saw the genuine, desperate terror that she might be hurt.
That look was the final nail. The coffin of my marriage slammed shut.
Dante turned his head to look at me. His chest he heave. For one second, he looked torn. But his body had already made the choice.
He opened his hand, completely releasing my wrist.
He turned his back on me. He dug his boots into the snow and sprinted back toward the cabin like a wild animal, leaving me alone in the dark.
"You better pray she's not dead, Dante."
