Chapter 11
Dante Moretti POV
The shriek that tore from Sofia's throat wasn't human.
It was the wail of a cornered animal realizing the trap had finally snapped shut.
I loomed over her.
My hand throbbed from the impact of the backhand, a dull ache that felt like the only real thing in a room dizzy with lies.
She lay amidst the ruins of the white cake, frosting smeared across her face like grotesque war paint, red blood trickling from her nose to mix with the sugar.
"Dante," she choked out, scrambling backward on her elbows. Her heels scraped frantically against the polished floor.
"Dante, listen to me. The recording... it's edited. Elena did this. She hates us."
I took a slow step forward.
The crowd of Chicago's elite recoiled, splitting apart to give me a wide berth. No one dared to breathe. No one dared to intervene.
They were witnessing an execution.
"I heard your voice." My tone was terrifyingly calm. It didn't belong to a man. It belonged to the grave. "I heard you laugh about my honor. I heard you plan my death."
"Sergei made me say it!" She was sobbing now, hysterically, clutching her stomach. "He threatened the baby! Our baby!"
"That is not my baby!" I roared.
The boom of my voice shattered the last of her defenses.
I reached down, twisting my fingers into a handful of her hair.
The extensions tore, but I didn't let go. I hauled her up to her knees.
She clawed at my wrist, her nails digging in, but I felt nothing. I was numb.
"I sacrificed my wife for you," I whispered into her ear, loud enough for the microphone to catch every syllable. "I killed my own son for you."
I looked at the guests.
I saw the disgust in their eyes. Not for me. For her.
The illusion was broken. The fragile, protected ward was gone. Revealed as the viper she always was.
"Remove her," I ordered.
Two of my most loyal soldiers, Enzo and Marco, stepped forward. They didn't look at her with pity. They looked at her like she was filth that needed to be taken to the curb.
Enzo grabbed her left arm. Marco grabbed her right.
"No! No, please! I'm pregnant!" Sofia shrieked, her legs kicking uselessly in the air as they dragged her backward. "Dante! I love you!"
"Take her to the basement," I said, calmly wiping the blood from my knuckles onto a silk napkin. "Keep her alive. I want her to be awake when I find the Russian."
Her screams echoed down the long hallway, bouncing off the marble walls until the heavy oak doors slammed shut, severing the sound.
Silence rushed back into the ballroom.
It was heavy. Suffocating.
I looked down at my shoes. There was a smear of icing on the leather.
I felt sick.
Not because of what I had done to her.
But because of what she had done to me.
And what I had done to Elena.
"Clear the room," I said to the Consigliere.
"Dante," he started, his face pale. "The press..."
"Kill the story," I said, turning my back on the room. "Bribe them. Threaten them. I don't care. Just get everyone out."
I walked toward the exit.
I didn't run. Kings do not run.
But inside, I was sprinting.
I needed to get to New York.
I needed to fall on my knees.
I needed to beg.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out, hoping it was her. Hoping she had turned the car around.
It was a picture.
Flames licked the wrought iron gates of my Villa.
And a text from Rocco Falcone.
Cross the state line, Moretti, and I will send you back in pieces. She is gone.
The phone slipped from my fingers.
It hit the floor with a sickening crack.
I stared at the spiderweb fracture on the screen.
It matched the one in my chest.
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