The only sounds at dinner were the scrape of forks against china and the wet sounds of Camilla chewing.
I sat at the far end of the table, a piece of furniture hidden in the shadows.
A dull, rhythmic fire burned in my side, and I could feel the slow, warm seep of blood into the crude bandage I'd applied myself.
Dante had given the last medical kit to Camilla for a tiny knife cut.
Now, he was cutting her steak for her.
He forked up small pieces and fed them to her.
"Open up," he murmured, his eyes soft.
She took a bite, her gaze sliding past his shoulder to land on me.
She chewed slowly, a smug smile playing on her lips.
Then, with her manicured hand, she pointed at mine.
"That ring is beautiful," she said.
It was my grandmother's ring.
An emerald set in antique gold, the band worn thin by the hands of the women in my family.
Dante had slipped it on my finger the night we'd exchanged vows in the ruins of that little church.
"It's a family heirloom," I said, my other hand closing over it like a shell.
Dante stopped chewing.
He looked at the ring.
Then he looked at Camilla's bare finger.
"You deserve the best, baby," he said to her.
He stood up.
The legs of his chair scraped the floor as he moved toward me.
A fresh wave of pain lanced through my injured side.
"Give me the ring," he said.
"No," I said, my voice dry, scraped raw. "It's mine. It was my grandmother's."
"I'm the Don," he said, his voice dropping, turning cold. "Everything in this house is mine. Including you. Including that ring."
He loomed over me.
I curled my fingers into a fist.
He grabbed my wrist.
His hand was a manacle of bone and sinew.
With slow, methodical force, he pried my fingers open one by one, a display of absolute power.
I didn't fight him physically. I couldn't. I was too weak from blood loss, too weak from protecting him.
It was laughable. I was weak from protecting him.
He pulled the ring from my finger. A cold wind seemed to blow straight into the hollow left in my chest.
A pale, naked band of skin remained where the ring had rested for ten years.
He walked back to Camilla.
He slid it onto her finger.
It was too big, hanging loose on her knuckle.
"We'll get it sized tomorrow," he promised her.
I stood up.
My chair scraped back, a harsh sound in the silence.
I left the dining room without looking back.
I went straight to the guest room.
I pulled my travel bag from under the bed.
I didn't pack clothes.
I didn't pack the jewelry he'd given me.
I packed my knives.
I packed my passport.
I packed the photo of my brother.
The door creaked open behind me.
Camilla stood there.
She twisted the ring on her finger, making the emerald flash in the dim light.
"You know," she said, leaning against the doorframe, "you're just asking for trouble. Thinking you're his wife. It's pathetic."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
She tossed it onto the bed.
"He kept this in the safe. Thought you should see."
I unfolded it.
It was our marriage license.
The document we'd signed ten years ago.
My eyes traveled down the page to the blank space where the state seal should have been stamped.
"Never filed," Camilla said, her laugh a light, tinkling thing. "He never sent it to the state, or the church. You've always been just his mistress, Serra. Just like me."
She winked.
"Except I'm the one with the ring."
She turned and left.
I looked at the paper in my hand.
I didn't cry.
I didn't scream.
I felt a small click deep in my chest.
Like a lock tumbling into place.
I was never a Moretti.
I never had been.
Which meant I didn't need his permission to leave.
And I was leaving. Now.
