Three days passed in the sterile white of the hospital room, a blur of hypothermia and pneumonia.
Dante visited exactly once.
He stood at the foot of the bed, checked his watch, and told me that the Commission was gathering on the yacht this weekend. He said my absence would look suspicious.
He didn't ask how I felt. He didn't touch me.
So, on Saturday, I encased myself in a long-sleeved gown to hide the bandages and the fading bruises.
The yacht, *The Vengeance*, was a floating palace. Champagne flowed in endless, golden streams. Men in tuxedos discussed territory and shipments while their wives compared diamonds sharp enough to cut glass.
I stood by the railing, holding a tray of crystal flutes like a servant.
"Elena," a voice purred.
I turned. Sofia was wearing a dress that cost more than the house I grew up in. It was red. Blood red.
"You look pale," she said, smiling over the rim of her glass. "Dante wants you to serve the Don of the Chicago Outfit. He's thirsty."
"I am his wife," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor of fear in my chest. "I am not a waitress."
"You are whatever Dante says you are," she whispered, leaning in until I could smell her expensive perfume. "And right now, you're an embarrassment."
She snatched a glass from my tray and shoved it into my hand. "Drink. To my health. To the sister you sold."
"I can't," I said stiffly. "I'm allergic to the sulfites in this vintage. You know that."
"Drink it, or I start screaming that you pinched me."
I looked across the deck. Dante was deep in conversation with Julian, a rival boss from the West Coast. Julian was looking at me, his gaze intense and assessing. Dante wasn't looking at me at all.
I drank the champagne.
My throat began to itch immediately. Hives broke out on my neck, hidden by the high collar, but the heat was undeniable. My chest tightened.
Sofia laughed. She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the stern, away from the crowd.
"Look at you," she sneered. "Pathetic. Do you know why he keeps you? Because of the contract. He can't divorce you without losing the port territories. But accidents... accidents happen."
The wind whipped her hair across her face.
"I want to be the Queen," she said simply. "And there is only one throne."
She looked over her shoulder. The deck was empty.
Without warning, she threw herself backward against the railing. She screamed, a blood-curdling sound. "Help! She's pushing me!"
Dante materialized instantly. He moved with the speed of a predator.
He saw Sofia clinging to the rail. He saw me standing there, gasping for air, my face flushed from the allergic reaction.
"Elena!" he roared.
He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate.
He shoved me.
It was a hard, brutal shove meant to tear me away from her.
I hit the railing. My balance was gone. I tipped over the edge.
The water hit me with the density of concrete.
Cold. Dark. Salty.
I sank. The heavy gown pulled me down like an anchor. My lungs burned. I kicked, fighting the surface, fighting the ocean.
I broke the surface for a fraction of a second. I saw the lights of the yacht. I saw Dante leaning over the rail.
He was reaching down.
But he wasn't reaching for me.
He was pulling Sofia up, wrapping her in his jacket, checking her face for scratches.
I screamed his name, but the water filled my mouth.
He didn't look down. He turned his back and walked away with her, leaving me to the black waves.
