When the heavy iron door finally groaned open, the sudden influx of light blinded me.
Two guards dragged me out, my legs useless beneath me, numb from days of cramping cold. I reeked of mildew and the sour, metallic tang of my own fear.
Dante was waiting in the hallway.
He looked tired, the lines around his eyes etched deep, but his expression held no apology.
"Elena begged for your release," he said, his voice flat. "She has a forgiving heart. Unlike you."
I didn't answer.
I couldn't even look at him. If I turned my gaze to his face, the urge to kill him might override the little strength I had left, and I would only fail.
"You are confined to the attic," he stated, delivering the verdict like a judge. "You are no longer mistress of this house. You are a liability."
The attic.
A cruel irony. It used to be my sanctuary, the one place where the light was perfect for painting. Now, the lock clicked shut from the outside.
I spent three days in that dust-mote silence.
I spent hours watching from the small circular window as Elena walked in the garden below.
She was wearing my sun hat.
She was holding Dante's arm.
He leaned down to hear her speak, a softness in the curve of his spine that used to belong to me. That betrayal hurt more than the hunger.
On the fourth day, the door opened.
A maid entered, avoiding my eyes, and threw a garment onto the narrow bed.
"The Don expects you downstairs in an hour," she muttered. "The Charity Gala is tonight."
I looked at the dress.
It was black. Severe. High-necked and old-fashioned.
It wasn't a dress for a wife. It was a dress for a widow.
I put it on. The silk hung loosely on my frame; I had lost at least ten pounds in a week.
The Gala was held in the grand ballroom, a cavern of crystal chandeliers and hollow laughter. The elite of Chicago were there—politicians, judges, and the heads of other crime families.
When I walked in, the room fell into a suffocating silence.
They saw the dark circles bruised under my eyes. They saw the vast, freezing distance between me and my husband.
Dante stood at the center of the room, a glass of scotch in hand, commanding the space.
Elena was beside him, draped in a shimmering gold gown that clung to her curves like second skin. She looked like a queen.
I drifted toward the bar, trying to make myself invisible against the shadows.
The whispers reached me anyway.
"That's the wife? She looks deranged."
"I heard she tried to poison the kid."
"Dante is a saint for keeping her."
Suddenly, a woman in crimson deliberately checked her shoulder into mine.
Red wine splashed across the front of my black dress, soaking into the fabric like fresh blood.
"Oops," she sneered, her lip curling. "Watch where you're going, crazy."
I didn't react.
I didn't gasp. I didn't glare. I just took a cocktail napkin and quietly dabbed at the stain.
Dante saw it all.
He didn't come to me.
Instead, he stepped up to the microphone on the stage.
"Thank you all for coming," he said, his baritone voice silencing the room effortlessly. "Family is everything to us."
He slid an arm around Elena's waist.
She beamed, soaking in the adoration.
"I want to honor Elena Russo tonight," he announced. "A woman of courage. A woman who understands loyalty. She is the future of this house."
The room erupted in applause.
He hadn't introduced her as his mistress. He hadn't introduced her as a guest. He had named her the future.
And me? I was the past. I was just the stain on the floor.
He looked at me then.
Across the sea of applauding sycophants, his eyes locked with mine. There was a challenge in them, cold and sharp.
*Submit,* he was saying. *Accept your place.*
I held his gaze. I didn't blink. I didn't cry.
After the speech, he cornered me by the kitchen entrance, away from the prying eyes of his guests.
"You will move your things to the servant's quarters in the east wing," he ordered. "The attic is needed for storage. You will learn humility, Sera. You will earn your keep."
I looked at him, feeling a strange, hollow calm settle over me.
"Okay," I said.
He blinked, visibly surprised by my lack of fight. "Okay?"
"Yes, Dante. Whatever you say."
I turned and walked toward the servant's hall.
I didn't look back.
I didn't need to. I knew exactly where I was going.
