Revenge Wedding: I Choose The Reaper

Club Inferno was less a venue and more a descent into a pulsing, sensory assault.

Strobe lights fractured the smoky haze into jagged shards, a thumping bass vibrated deep in the bone, and the air was thick with the commingled smells of sweat and expensive vodka.

It was nominally neutral territory, but tonight, Dante had colonized the VIP skybox.

I walked past the bouncers. They knew me. They shifted on their feet, looking nervous at the sight of the Vitiello princess alone, but they didn't dare stop me.

I climbed the stairs to the VIP level. I could hear them before I saw them-a raw, braying laugh rising above the music.

"To the spoils of war!" someone shouted. Glasses clinked.

I stood in the shadows of the hallway, peering through the heavy velvet curtains.

Dante was sprawled on the central leather couch, a petty king on his throne. His tie was loose. And she was there.

Sofia.

She was sheathed in a silver dress that looked more like peeled chrome than silk. She was straddling his lap, her fingers tangled in his hair.

"Baby, I need that Birkin," she whined, tracing his jaw with a talon-like nail. "The crocodile one."

"Buy it," Dante said, laughing. "Buy two. I'll put it on the company card."

"The Vitiello account?" Rocco asked, snickering from the corner.

"Why not?" Dante grinned, a cruel light glinting in his eyes. "Consider it Elena's dowry paying for real love."

I felt the bile rise, hot and acidic, in my throat. It wasn't just the cheating. It was the disrespect. The absolute mockery of my family, my name, my existence.

"Truth or Dare!" Sofia squealed, clapping her hands like a spoiled child. "Truth. Dante, who is better in bed? Me or the Princess?"

The room went quiet. The soldiers smirked, waiting for the punchline.

Dante took a shot of tequila, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Come on, Sof. You know I haven't touched her in months. She's... frigid. Like a statue. You have fire. She's just... necessary. She's the key to the city. Once I have the Vitiello territories, she'll just be the furniture in my house."

"So you don't love her?" Sofia pressed, pouting. "You swear?"

"I pity her," Dante said. The word echoed in my skull with more force than the bass. "I pity her because she thinks this is a fairy tale. She's a good political placeholder. That's all."

Pity.

My vision blurred. The red lights of the club seemed to bleed together into a single, throbbing wound. The floor tilted.

I turned to run. I couldn't listen to another word. I needed air.

My heel caught on the plush carpet of the hallway.

I stumbled.

I reached for the railing, but my hand slipped on the damp brass.

I fell.

The world became a violent kaleidoscope of impacts and disorientation. The sharp edge of a step struck my ribs, then my shoulder, then my head slammed against the wall.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I landed at the bottom of the private staircase in a heap of black silk and pain.

Darkness encroached on my vision.

Above me, the curtain parted. Dante stepped out, buttoning his shirt. He looked down into the murky stairwell. He didn't see me-Elena. He just saw a shape in the dark. He was looking at his phone, laughing at something Sofia had sent him.

He stepped right over my legs.

He registered an obstacle, a drunken patron passed out on the floor, and he adjusted his stride to clear it.

He stepped over me like I was refuse.

"Taxi's here, babe!" he called back to Sofia.

He left.

He left me broken at the bottom of the stairs.

I closed my eyes, and the darkness finally took me.