He Chose Her Lies, I Chose Revenge

Seraphina Vitiello POV

My phone buzzed against the nightstand, a harsh, insistent vibration that rattled my teeth.

I stared at the screen, the glow illuminating the dark hollow of my room.

*Dante Moretti.*

The name used to make my heart perform gymnastics. Now, it just made my stomach turn sour.

*Penthouse. Suite 1808. Now.*

A command. Not a request.

In my past life, I would have rushed over, breathless, thinking he finally wanted to talk. Thinking he had remembered the truth.

I knew better now.

But I had to play the part. The obedient little sister. The punching bag.

If I deviated too much, too fast, they would lock me up before I could ever escape.

I pulled on a simple black dress. No makeup. No jewelry.

I looked like a shadow. That’s what I was.

The building was a fortress owned by the Outfit—a mixed-use high-rise where the top floors served as private recovery suites for the elite.

I took the elevator up, watching the numbers climb.

18...

The doors slid open with a soft chime.

Two guards stood outside the suite. They didn't even check me for weapons.

After all, who fears the spare?

I pushed the heavy door open.

The suite smelled of lilies and sandalwood—the scent of expensive funerals.

Dante was there.

He was leaning against the mahogany desk, his suit jacket discarded, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the tan skin of his throat.

He was devastatingly handsome. Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes like shattered ice.

And Isabella was in his lap.

She was giggling, tracing the line of his jaw with a manicured finger. Her dress was hiked up high on her thighs.

They looked like a centerfold for a vice magazine.

Isabella gasped when she saw me, feigning shock. She buried her face in Dante’s neck.

"Dante, you didn't tell me she was coming," she whined.

Dante didn't look at her. He looked at me.

His gaze was cold. Predatory.

"I wanted her to see," he said. His voice was a low baritone that vibrated through the floorboards.

"See what?" I asked. My voice was steady. Dead.

"This." Dante gestured to Isabella, to the luxury around them, to the power he wore like a second skin. "I wanted you to see what loyalty looks like. What perfection looks like."

He stood up, gently setting Isabella aside.

He walked toward me. He towered over me, radiating heat and suppressed violence.

"You told your father you were leaving," he said. "Going to London."

"Yes."

"Good," he sneered. "Because I'm tired of your desperate attempts to claim credit for saving me. I'm tired of your jealousy."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy cream envelope.

He shoved it into my hand. The corner dug sharply into my palm.

"The wedding invitation," he said. "Consider it a command. I want you there. I want you to watch us say our vows. I want you to understand, once and for all, that you are nothing."

I looked down at the invitation.

*Dante Moretti & Isabella Vitiello.*

The calligraphy was exquisite. Like a beautiful epitaph.

"Understood," I said.

Dante paused. He was expecting tears. He was expecting me to scream that I was Seven, the girl who had dragged him from hell.

"Understood?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing.

"Message received," I said. "I wish you a long reign."

I turned to leave.

"Wait," Dante barked.

I stopped.

"You're pathetic," he spat. "Look at you. You don't even have the fire to fight for yourself."

"Fire burns, Dante," I said softly, refusing to turn back. "I'm done burning."

I walked out.

I heard Isabella laughing behind me. A cruel, tinkling sound like breaking glass.

Dante escorted her out a moment later. They were heading to the club at the base of the tower.

I followed them out of the building, keeping my distance, a ghost haunting the living.

The Chicago wind cut through my thin dress like a knife.

They stood on the curb, waiting for the valet. Dante had his arm around her waist, shielding her from the cold.

I stood ten feet away, shivering.

Above us, the old neon sign of the jazz club flickered ominously.

*The Blue Note.*

I heard the shriek of metal before I saw it.

A rusted bolt gave way.

The heavy steel frame of the sign groaned and detached from the brick facade.

It plummeted.

"Dante!" Isabella screamed.

Dante looked up.

He had a split second.

I was standing to his left. Isabella was to his right.

The sign was wide. It was going to hit us all.

He moved with the unnatural speed of a killer.

He lunged.

But he didn't lunge for me.

He threw his body over Isabella, tackling her to the pavement, shielding her with his own broad back.

He left me standing there.

The metal crashed down.

Pain obliterated my shoulder, my back, my legs.

The world turned white, then red.

I was pinned. Crushed under twisted steel and shattered glass.

I couldn't breathe.

I turned my head against the gritty asphalt. Blood was pooling warm and sticky around my face.

I saw Dante.

He was standing up, dusting off his suit. He was unharmed.

He was pulling Isabella to her feet.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her, his voice frantic. "Bella, look at me."

"I... I think I scraped my knee," she sobbed.

He hugged her tight. "I've got you. You're safe."

He didn't look left.

He didn't look at the pile of debris five feet away.

He didn't look at me.

I closed my eyes as the darkness took me.

The boy I saved in the safe house was truly dead.

And this time, I hoped I was too.