I went into labor on the marble floor of the Moretti mansion while my husband toasted his mistress three rooms away. I called him eleven times. He silenced every single one. On the twelfth, his first love—Sofia—answered. "Elena, stop. Dante's busy. Sofia just collapsed in his arms. Have some decency." She hung up before I could scream that my water had broken, that his son was coming two months early, that I was bleeding on the imported stone he loved more than me. I dragged myself toward the grand staircase. Down below, the gala roared—two hundred guests in black tie, champagne towers, violins. All to honor Dante Moretti, the youngest don to ever rule the Eastern Syndicate, a man feared from the docks of New York to the vaults of Sicily. My husband. The man who hadn't touched me in five months because Sofia Russo had "come home broken" and needed him to put her back together. I clawed my way to the top of the staircase and looked down. There he was. His hand cradling Sofia's cheek as she swayed against his chest in a blood-red gown, eyes closed, lips parted like a woman in a dream. She looked like a queen. She looked like his wife. I was his wife. A contraction tore through me so hard I crumpled against the banister. "Dante!" I screamed. The orchestra swallowed it whole. It was his mother, Isabella, who finally saw me. But she didn't run. She climbed the stairs and seized my wrist, nails like talons. "What are you doing? Crawling around like an animal at my son's celebration?" "The baby," I gasped. "He's coming—" "You trapped my son with that belly. Don't think I'm blind." Her grip twisted. "Sofia nearly died tonight. Crawl back to your room before you shame this family further." She let go. She walked away. Forty minutes later, a kitchen maid found me unconscious in a spreading pool of red and called for the family doctor. I delivered my son by emergency cesarean—alone. A boy. Premature. Fragile. Alive. When I opened my eyes, the room was empty except for the soft beep of a monitor and the smallest cry I'd ever heard. I checked my phone. One message from Dante, sent four hours after the maid had told him. [Heard you made a scene. Theatrical, even for you. Sofia relapsed after your stunt. I'm staying with her. We'll speak when you've calmed down.] I read it until the words dissolved. Then I typed three words. [I want out.] He read it instantly. His reply came in three seconds. [Good. I was waiting for you to say it.]
