Dante Moretti POV
The explosion had been a catastrophic miscalculation.
Sofia was a liability.
I saw that clearly now, the truth settling in my gut like lead.
I stood at the ragged edge of the crater, the high beams of my SUV slicing through the swirling dust and smoke.
It didn't look like a road anymore; it looked like a war zone.
"Find her," I snarled at my head of security, my voice rough against the silence.
They had been combing through the rubble for twenty minutes.
There was no body.
Just a pool of dark blood near a shattered slab of marble.
My stomach churned-a violent, foreign sensation.
Fear?
No.
Moretti men did not feel fear.
We felt the threat of losing assets.
And Elena was an asset. My most valuable one.
"She's not here, Boss," the guard called out, his voice hesitant. "The car is here. But she... she's gone."
"She can't be gone," I snapped, turning on my heel. "She has nowhere to go."
I threw myself back into the car and tore off toward the penthouse.
I drove with reckless precision, the speedometer climbing as the city blurred past.
My knuckles were white, threatening to burst through the skin as I gripped the steering wheel.
She was just being dramatic.
She was hiding.
I would find her, drag her back by her hair if I had to, and punish her for this little stunt at the party.
Then, I would deal with Sofia.
Sofia had crossed a line. Disrespecting the dead was bad for business; targeting my wife was a death sentence.
I burst through the double doors of the penthouse.
"Elena!"
My voice ricocheted off the high, vaulted ceilings.
Silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence.
I stormed into the bedroom.
Empty.
The bed was made, the sheets pristine and undisturbed.
I checked the bathroom.
The bloody dress was gone.
The bandage wrappers were gone.
I ripped open the closet doors.
Her side was stripped bare.
Not just her clothes.
Everything.
Her jewelry. Her shoes. The stupid little trinkets she kept on the vanity.
It was as if she had never existed at all.
I walked slowly back to the living room, the dread finally piercing through my rage.
On the coffee table, right where I had carelessly thrown the divorce papers earlier, sat a single sheet of heavy cream paper.
It was an invitation.
To the Rossi wedding.
Luca Rossi.
My enemy.
The man who wanted to burn my territory to the ground.
I picked it up, my fingers trembling with a lethal mix of fury and disbelief.
Underneath it was a handwritten note.
The handwriting was elegant, sharp-unmistakably hers.
The Vow is Broken.
I am no longer your wife.
I am your reckoning.
I crumbled the note in my fist until my nails bit into my palm.
She had gone to him.
She had run to the one man who could truly hurt me.
I threw the crumpled paper across the room with a primal growl.
I grabbed a bottle of scotch from the bar and hurled it against the wall.
It shattered on impact, the amber liquid bleeding down the expensive paint like a wound.
"You think you can leave me?" I roared at the empty, mocking room.
I ripped my phone from my pocket and dialed Marco.
"Find her," I commanded, my voice shaking with a rage so pure it felt like liquid fire in my veins. "Find her and kill Rossi. Bring her back to me."
"Dante," Marco hesitated on the other end. "She signed the papers. Technically..."
"I don't give a fuck about the papers!" I screamed, the sound tearing at my throat. "She is mine! Burn the city down if you have to. But bring her back!"
I ended the call and hurled the phone onto the sofa.
I stared at the empty spot where she used to sit, where she used to wait for me.
The silence was deafening now.
For the first time in my life, the realization hit me with the force of a physical blow.
I hadn't just lost a wife.
I had started a war.
And for the first time, I wasn't sure I was going to win.
