He Saved His Mistress, Not His Wife

I signed the divorce papers three days later.

I did it standing in the kitchen, washing down the reality of it with coffee that tasted like bitter mud.

Dante wasn't there. He was at the hospital with Sofia. Her surgery had been a success. Of course it was. In Dante’s world, failure was not an option.

I was already packing.

I moved with agonizing slowness. My kidney was aching again, a dull throb buried deep in my flank that radiated sharply to my back. The stress was only fueling the fire.

I didn't have much to pack.

I left the diamond jewelry. I left the silk clothes he had bought to dress his doll. I left the keys to the luxury car.

Instead, I took my medical degree. I took my passport. And I took the framed photograph of Luca.

My phone buzzed against the granite counter.

It was a news alert.

*Sofia Ricci wins Journalism Award for bravery in North Africa.*

I looked at the photo on the screen. Sofia was in her hospital bed, her bandaged hand held up like a trophy. Dante was standing beside her, looking proud.

He looked like a King surveying his queen.

I set the phone down, face first.

The front door opened.

Dante walked in. He was early.

His dark eyes swept over the bags in the hallway.

"You are really leaving," he said, his voice void of surprise.

"The lawyer already has the papers," I replied, keeping my back to him.

He walked past me into the kitchen. He moved with that predatory grace I used to admire. He poured himself a glass of water with deliberate slowness.

"Sofia is coming back here to recover," he announced. "The medical wing is better equipped than her apartment."

I nodded. "Of course she is."

"But she is missing something," Dante said, his tone shifting.

He put the glass down hard enough to make a sound.

"Her father's Gold Service Medal. The one the Family gave him posthumously. She says she left it on the counter before the crash. It is gone."

I looked at him, truly looked at him.

"And?"

"She thinks you took it," Dante stated.

I laughed. It was a breathless, incredulous sound that scraped my throat.

"Why would I want her father's medal?" I asked. "I have enough ghosts of my own."

"She says you were jealous," Dante countered, stepping closer. "She says you threatened her."

"I didn't take it, Dante."

"Return it, Elena," he commanded. His voice was low. A warning.

"I don't have it."

Dante slammed his hand on the counter, making the silverware jump.

"Do not lie to me! That medal is sacred! It represents a blood sacrifice!"

"So did my brother!" I yelled back, the grief finally piercing through my composure.

Dante grabbed my arm. His grip was iron.

He dragged me toward the back door.

"Where are we going?" I gasped, stumbling as my leg caught on the threshold.

"The courtyard," he snarled.

He pushed me out into the sun.

It was July. The heat was oppressive, a physical weight pressing down on the earth. Ninety degrees and suffocatingly humid.

"You will stand here until you remember where you put it," he declared.

He pointed to the center of the stone patio. There was no shade. Only the merciless glare of the sun.

"Dante," I pleaded, panic fluttering in my chest. "I am sick. My kidney..."

"Confess, and you can come inside," he said coldly.

He went back into the house and locked the glass sliding door with a decisive click.

I stood there.

The sun beat down on me. It felt personal, like a heavy hand pushing me into the ground.

Sweat trickled down my back, soaking my shirt instantly.

My side began to cramp. Sharp, stabbing pains that stole my breath.

I saw Dante in the kitchen. He was watching me through the glass.

He was waiting for me to break.

I stood for an hour.

The pain became a roar in my ears, drowning out the cicadas.

My vision blurred. Black spots danced in front of my eyes like ink in water.

I wasn't going to confess to a crime I didn't commit.

I wasn't going to give him that satisfaction.

I looked at him through the glass one last time.

I saw him checking his watch.

My knees gave out.

The stone patio rushed up to meet me.

I didn't feel the impact.

I just felt the sweet, dark relief of letting go.