Elena POV
I don't know how long I was in the dark.
Time warps when your blood is turning to slush. It becomes a viscous, endless loop.
I huddled in the corner, wrapping my arms around my knees, hallucinating warmth.
I saw my mother. I saw the nightlight Dante made me years ago. I saw the fire that was coming.
Then, the door opened.
Light blinded me. Dante stood there, his silhouette framed by the harsh kitchen lights. He looked... shaken. His chest heaved, as if he had run all the way here. Maybe he thought he’d find a corpse.
"Get up," he said. His voice was rough, like gravel grinding against glass.
I couldn't feel my feet. I tried to stand and collapsed.
He cursed and stepped inside, scooping me up. His body heat was a shock to my system, a violent collision of fire and ice. I wanted to lean into it. I wanted to bite him.
"You're going to the hospital," he said, carrying me out. "Dr. Ricci will stabilize you. And then you stay there. Under guard. Until the ceremony is over."
"You... hate me," I chattered, my teeth clacking together uncontrollably.
"I don't hate you, Elena," he whispered against my hair, his grip tightening. "I mourn who you used to be."
He put me in the car.
At the private hospital, they wrapped me in heated blankets. They put an IV in my arm.
Dante stayed for ten minutes. He checked his watch, the movement jerky, agitated.
"I have to go," he said. "Sofia is terrified. She needs me."
"Go," I whispered. "Marry her."
He hesitated at the door. He looked at me one last time, a war waging behind his eyes. I memorized his face. The sharp jaw. The cruel mouth. The eyes that used to be my world.
"Goodbye, Dante."
He frowned at the finality in my tone, but he left.
As soon as the elevator dinged, the nurse walked in.
She wasn't my usual nurse. She had a scar over her eyebrow and eyes like flint, void of any professional warmth.
"Mrs. Moretti?" she asked.
"Is it time?"
"The shift change is in five minutes. The guards are distracted."
She pulled a syringe from her pocket. Not a sedative. An adrenaline blocker to slow the heart rate of the cadaver she had stashed in the laundry cart.
"The body?" I asked.
"Jane Doe. Heroin overdose. Same height, same build. We dressed her in your gown."
I got out of bed. My legs were weak, but adrenaline surged through me, artificial and electric.
I took off my wedding ring. The diamond was heavy. It felt like a shackle.
I placed it on the bedside table. It clicked against the wood—the sound of a lock springing open.
The nurse helped me climb into the laundry cart, under the pile of dirty sheets. She pulled the Jane Doe out and placed her in the bed, arranging the limbs with efficient, clinical detachment.
She doused the room in rubbing alcohol. Then she poured a canister of gasoline she had smuggled in.
"Ready?" she whispered.
"Burn it," I said.
She lit a match and tossed it onto the bed.
The fumes ignited with a concussive blast.
The heat was instantaneous. The fire alarm shrieked. Sprinklers hissed, but the accelerant was too strong.
The nurse pushed the cart out of the room, screaming, "Fire! Help! Fire in Room 302!"
I lay curled under the sheets, listening to the chaos. The shouting. The running feet. The explosion of the oxygen tanks.
We moved through the service corridors. Down the freight elevator. Out into the cool night air.
A black van was waiting.
I climbed in. I didn't look back at the hospital. I didn't look back at the smoke rising into the New York skyline.
I looked at my bare ring finger.
Elena Moretti died in that fire.
The woman sitting in the van was someone else entirely. And she was finally free.
