Revenge Wedding: I Choose The Reaper

Slap.

The sound of flesh on flesh was a sharp, ugly crack that echoed through the penthouse like a gunshot.

Dante's head snapped to the side. A violent, red handprint began to bloom on his cheek.

He froze. The shock on his face was so profound it rendered him momentarily immobile. Elena Vitiello, the perfect mafia daughter, the silent wife-to-be, had just struck the Underboss of the Romero family.

"Elena?" he whispered, his fingertips tentatively grazing his cheek as if to confirm the injury.

Slap.

I hit him again. Harder this time. My palm stung, vibrating with the force of the impact.

"That," I said, my voice trembling with a lethal, contained rage, "is for the 'friend'."

Dante stared at me, his eyes darkening as shock gave way to a frigid warning. "You're upset. I get it. But don't ever hit me again."

"Or what?" I stepped into his space, tilting my chin up in a direct challenge I knew he wasn't expecting. "You'll kill me? You'll have your soldiers dispose of me like you dispose of your honor?"

"I have honor!" he shouted, his voice fraying at the edges.

"You have nothing," I spat. "Do you remember the oath, Dante? The one you swore when we got engaged?"

He rubbed his jaw, looking away with a dismissive frown. "We were kids."

"'If I betray you, I forfeit my claim. If I betray you, you are free to marry another.'" I recited the words with perfect, chilling precision. They were burned into my memory.

Dante let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "That was poetry, Elena. Not a contract. And I haven't betrayed you. Helping a sick friend isn't betrayal."

He was still lying. Even with the red mark searing his face, he was lying.

"I'm leaving," I said. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase.

Panic flickered in his eyes. He moved to block the door with a sudden, menacing stride. "Leaving? Where? The wedding is in three days. You can't leave."

"I'm going to my parents' estate," I lied smoothly, arranging my features into an expression of haughty indignation. "My mother wants to do a traditional blessing before the ceremony. I need space, Dante. If you want me at that altar on the first, you will let me walk out that door right now."

He hesitated. He looked at the suitcase, then at my furious face. He calculated. He figured if he pushed me now, I might actually snap. But if he let me go to my mother, he was certain the dutiful daughter would return, calmed down and ready to serve.

"Fine," he said, stepping aside with a sigh of put-upon patience. "Go see your mother. Get this... tantrum out of your system. I'll see you at the altar."

"Yes," I said, walking past him without looking back. "You will."

I took the elevator down without making a sound. I got into the waiting town car. As the city blurred past the window, I didn't look at the skyline.

I looked at my phone.

My father had sent a text.

He accepted. The Reaper will be there.

When I arrived at the Vitiello estate, the atmosphere was thick with a palpable, choking dread. My mother was pacing in the foyer, wringing her hands until her knuckles were white and bloodless. My father, Alessandro, looked like he had aged ten years in a single phone call.

"Elena," my mother gasped, rushing to hug me as if she were checking for wounds. "Are you insane? Valerio Moretti? Do you know what they call him? They say he cuts the tongues out of liars. They say he has no heart."

"Better a man with no heart than a man with two faces," I said, pulling away with a gentle but absolute finality.

"This is war," my father muttered, pouring himself a stiff drink, the crystal decanter clattering against the glass. "If Dante finds out..."

"Dante thinks I'm a fool," I said. "He won't find out until it's too late."

I walked up the grand staircase to my old bedroom. It looked exactly the same as when I left it five years ago. Innocent. Naive. Untouched by the decay of my current reality.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'm not marrying for love, Papa," I called down to him, my voice carrying through the hollow expanse of the house. "I'm marrying for revenge. And Valerio Moretti is the only weapon sharp enough to kill a Romero."