Roses never fade

A dead silence fell over the room.

Even the bodyguards standing by the door looked away.

"Dante," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I didn't do this."

"On your knees!" he snapped.

Sofia sighed, her tone exaggerated. "Dante, darling, don't be so harsh. Maybe she just needs a drink to calm her nerves. How about a toast? To my safety?"

She gestured lazily toward a bottle of whiskey on the low table.

"Drink," Sofia ordered, her eyes glinting with the cruelty of a predator toying with its prey. "Finish the bottle, and I'll forgive you."

I stared at the amber liquid.

I hadn't touched a drop of alcohol in five years.

When Dante was blind, he drowned his sorrows in booze. Alcohol turned him into a monster, a creature of pure rage and grief.

So I quit drinking. I had to be the sober one, the anchor in his storm.

"I can't," I choked out.

Dante leaned back, crossing his arms. "You disrespected the Family, Elena. Drink, or leave New York in a body bag. Pick one."

He might have been bluffing. Or maybe not.

I could no longer read the man behind the mask.

I walked to the table, my legs feeling like lead.

I reached for the bottle.

As I did, my hand brushed against the room service tray next to it, palming a small tin of mustard powder.

While they watched, thinking I was just hesitating, I tilted my head back, dumped a handful of the yellow powder into my mouth, and agonizingly swallowed it dry.

It was an old servant's trick. An intense emetic; it would force me to throw up everything before the alcohol could cause cardiac arrest.

Then, I started drinking.

The whiskey burned down my throat like molten lead.

One glass.

Two glasses.

Sofia clapped her hands, giddy as a child watching a comical circus act.

Three.

The room began to tilt on its axis.

Four.

I gagged, fighting back the urge to vomit.

Five.

Tears streamed down my cheeks.

Not just from the alcohol.

From Dante.

Dante was watching me. His face was a blank mask, but his hands gripped his knees so tightly his knuckles were white.

Six.

I swayed, the floor threatening to rush up and smack me in the face.

Seven.

My fingers went numb. The glass slipped from my hand and hit the floor, shattering into flying crystal shards.

"Enough," Dante said. His voice was hoarse, grinding like gravel.

He stood up abruptly and grabbed my wrist. "Enough, Elena."

I violently yanked my arm out of his grasp.

The alcohol flooded my veins with reckless courage.

"Are you happy, Mr. Vitiello?" I slurred, waving a hand toward Sofia. "Is she worth it? Does she know how to hold you when the nightmares tear you to pieces? Does she know which song will pull you back from the dark?"

"That's enough, Elena. You're drunk," he warned, a dangerous edge to his voice.

"I hope she burns you," I spat, my words heavy with bitterness and whiskey. "I hope she burns you to ashes."

I turned and stumbled toward the door.

"Elena!" he called out.

I barely made it into the hallway before my legs finally gave out.

The mustard powder kicked in violently.

I collapsed onto the floor, heaving violently.

Darkness crept into the edges of my vision, the world shrinking to a pinpoint.

I felt a pair of strong arms scoop me up effortlessly.

"Get the car!" Dante roared, all his composure completely shattered. "Get the damn car now!"

"Dante, wait!" Sofia's shrill voice rang out from the room. "You can't leave me!"

"Shut up, Sofia!"

He carried me, holding me tight against him.

I pressed my face into his chest.

It smelled like betrayal.

"Let me go," I whispered against his shirt, losing consciousness. "Please, just let me go."

I woke up in a hospital bed.

The harsh smell of antiseptic hit my nose.

Dante was sitting in a chair beside me, his face buried in his hands.

He looked like a wreck.

"You're awake," he said, sitting up.

"Where is she?" I asked. "Where's your wife?"

"She's not my wife yet," he said quietly. "Elena... why did you drink? You know you can't handle it."

"You made me do it."

"I was angry. I didn't mean to..." His voice trailed off, the excuse dying on his lips.

He reached out to grab my hand.

I pulled it under the sheets, out of his reach.

"Go back to your business, Dante," I said. "The maid's daughter will be fine."

He flinched as if I had struck him.

"Don't call yourself that."

I chose to remain silent.

There was no need to argue with him. I was leaving soon—leaving him, leaving America.

He stood up and paced like a caged beast. "I'm doing this for the Family. You don't understand politics."

He stopped pacing. He stared at me with a terrifying intensity.

"You are mine," he growled low. "Contract or no contract, wife or no wife, you belong to me, Elena. Never forget that."

He turned and strode out of the room.

I waited until the heavy door clicked shut.

Then, I ripped the IV out of my arm.

Blood dripped onto the crisp white sheets, leaving a glaring red stain.

Nine days left.