Revenge Wedding: I Choose The Reaper

The sharp, stinging scent of antiseptic woke me.

I blinked against the unforgiving glare of a fluorescent light. White ceiling. White walls. The steady, mechanical hum of machines.

I tried to sit up, but a sharp blaze of pain in my ribs pinned me back down.

"Easy, Miss Vitiello," a nurse said, rushing over to put a steadying hand on my shoulder. "You took a nasty fall. Minor concussion, bruised ribs."

"Who brought me in?" My voice was a rasping croak.

"A bouncer from the club. He found you."

Not Dante. Of course not.

I lay there for an hour, staring at the IV drip. Every drop was a second of my life I had wasted on Dante Romero.

"Did you hear?" voices drifted from the hallway. Nurses gossiping in conspiratorial whispers.

"Room 304. Mr. Romero. Apparently, things got too wild with his... mistress. He dislocated his shoulder."

"Mistress? I thought he was marrying the Vitiello girl."

"Men like that always have spares."

Anger, hot and clarifying, surged through my veins. I sat up. Pain flared, a white-hot brand against my side, but I ignored it. I ripped the IV tape off my hand, wincing as the needle pulled free from the vein.

I slid off the bed. My legs were shaky, but I stood. I smoothed down my ruined black dress and washed the blood from my lip in the sink.

I walked out into the hallway.

Room 304 was just down the corridor. The door was open.

Dante was sitting on the edge of the bed, his arm in a sling. Sofia was hovering over him, feeding him ice chips.

They looked like a happy couple.

I walked in.

Dante looked up. His face went white. He scrambled to stand, pushing Sofia away with a sudden jerk, as if her touch had become poison.

"Elena! My god, what happened to you? You're bleeding!"

He reached for me. I stepped back, recoiling as if he were diseased.

"I fell," I said simply. "Down the stairs at Inferno."

Dante's eyes widened. He realized. He realized I had been there.

"Elena, I..." He looked at Sofia, then back at me, raw panic swimming in his gaze. "This is... this is Sofia. An old friend. She... she had a medical emergency. I was just helping her."

Sofia smirked. She stepped forward, extending a manicured hand. "Hi. I'm Sofia. The 'Friend'. Nice to finally meet the furniture."

Dante hissed. "Sofia, shut up."

I didn't shake her hand. I looked past her, at Dante. "Is this the business that delayed the wedding?"

"Elena, please. It's complicated. I was going to tell you."

"Are you marrying her?" I asked.

"No!" Dante shouted.

"Yes!" Sofia shouted at the same time.

Sofia crossed her arms. "On the first. Same day as yours. Funny, right? Dante says he can handle two ceremonies. He's a multi-tasker."

Dante looked like he wanted to die. "Elena, she's crazy. She's... she's sick. She has cancer. It's a dying wish thing. I'm just humoring her."

The lies were so thick I could feel them coating my throat. Cancer. Dying wish.

I laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound.

"You're busy that day, Dante," I said.

"I can make it work," he pleaded. "I'll be at the altar for you. I swear."

"No," I said, backing toward the door. "I mean I am busy that day."

He frowned. "What do you mean? You're the bride."

I held his gaze. My eyes were dry. My heart was a piece of dead iron in my chest.

"I am getting married that day, Dante. I will be walking down an aisle. I will be saying vows."

"Right. To me."

I smiled, but the expression felt sharp, like the baring of teeth.

"I am getting married," I repeated. "But you might want to check the invitation I gave you."

"Elena, stop talking in riddles! You're hurt. Let me take you home."

"Don't touch me," I snapped. The command cracked like a whip. Even Sofia flinched.

"I have to go," I said. "I have a wedding to plan. And a groom to meet."

"Stop joking!" Dante yelled as I turned my back. "You can't marry anyone else! You're mine!"

I didn't look back. I walked down the sterile white hallway, leaving the dead weight of my past behind in Room 304.

I pulled out my phone. I dialed a number I had memorized from my father's old ledger. I needed to confirm the pact. I needed to know the monster was coming.

It rang once.

"Moretti Residence," a deep, gravelly voice answered.

"This is Elena Vitiello," I said. "Tell the Don the date is set. The first of the month."

A beat of charged quiet passed over the line. Then, a low chuckle that sounded like stones grinding together.

"The Reaper is listening, Miss Vitiello."

"Tell him," I said, staring at the exit sign, "I'll see him at the altar."