The Mafia King's Unwanted Wife Shines

Dante POV

Agony clawed me back to consciousness.

It started as a dull throb, then sharpened into a jagged line of fire searing my side.

I groaned, attempting to shift my weight, but my limbs felt heavy, as if my veins had been filled with lead.

"Dante! Oh, thank God!"

A shrill voice shattered my headache like glass.

I forced my eyes open. Fluorescent light stabbed at my retinas. It was too bright. Sterile and unforgiving.

Sofia was hovering by the bedside, clutching my hand with a grip that felt more possessive than comforting. Her eyes were red and puffy, her makeup smeared in tragic streaks.

"You're awake," she sniffled, dabbing at her nose. "I was so scared."

I blinked, fighting to drag my mind through the thick, cloying fog of anesthesia.

"Water," I croaked, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper.

She scrambled to pour a cup, her hands shaking so much that she splashed half of it onto the plastic tray. She held the straw to my lips, missing twice before I could latch onto it.

I drank like a man dying of thirst, the cool liquid soothing the grit in my throat.

As the fog lifted, the memories crashed over me.

The bar. The glint of the knife. The hot spill of blood.

"Is Joe dead?" I rasped.

"Enzo took care of him," Sofia whispered, a theatrical shudder rippling through her shoulders. "He won't bother us again."

I nodded, closing my eyes for a second to steady the world.

Then, another memory surfaced. Something sharper than the knife.

Before the darkness had dragged me under.

I remembered a flash of cerulean silk in the doorway. A ghost in the chaos.

"Elena," I said.

Sofia went rigid. She pulled her hand away from mine as if burned.

"What about her?"

"Was she there?" I asked, my gaze fixing on hers. "At the bar?"

"I don't know," Sofia said, her voice pitching into a petulant whine. "I was a little busy almost getting murdered, Dante. Why do you care? You told me... you said you chose *me*."

I did.

I remembered saying it. I remembered the words leaving my mouth, fueled by adrenaline and a twisted sense of duty.

I remembered the relief of finally saying it out loud.

But why, then, did I feel a gnawing pit opening in my stomach? Why did the victory feel like ash?

"Where is she now?" I asked.

"Probably shopping," Sofia scoffed, crossing her arms. "Or feeling sorry for herself. She hasn't been here. Not once."

I frowned. That didn't track.

Even when we were at each other's throats, Elena always came to the hospital. She respected the duty of the ring, even if she hated the man wearing it.

When I got shot three years ago, she had sat in that uncomfortable plastic chair for three days straight, silent and stoic.

"Help me up," I said.

"Dante, no! You have stitches!"

"I said, help me up."

I fought through the tearing pain in my side and forced myself upright. The room tilted dangerously.

A nurse bustled in, checking the monitors.

"Mr. Vitiello! You need to rest."

"I'm checking out," I growled, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "Where are my clothes?"

"Sir, please. Your wife left some things for you, but you really shouldn't—"

"My wife?" I froze, the pain momentarily forgotten. "She was here?"

The nurse nodded, her expression turning sympathetic. She went to the counter and picked up a large manila envelope and a small, black velvet box.

She handed them to me.

I took the box first. It felt impossibly light.

I flicked it open.

The diamond solitaire glittered coldly under the harsh lights.

Next to it sat a plain gold band.

My wedding band.

My breath hitched, trapped in a chest that suddenly felt too tight.

I looked at the envelope. It was thick. Legal size.

I ripped it open.

*Petition for Annulment / Decree of Divorce.*

Signed: *Elena Greco.*

Dated: *Yesterday.*

The date I was stabbed.

The date I told Sofia I loved her.

"She left this?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"About six hours ago," the nurse said softly. "She said she was leaving."

"Leaving the hospital?"

"Leaving," the nurse clarified. "She had a suitcase."

The air left the room. It was as if a vacuum had sucked out all the oxygen.

The beeping of the heart monitor sped up, matching the frantic thudding against my ribs.

"Get the car," I barked at Sofia.

"Dante, you can't—"

"GET THE CAR!" I roared, the sound tearing at my throat.

I didn't wait for a wheelchair. I wouldn't be contained.

I walked out of the hospital in a gown, clutching that velvet box like a lifeline, ignoring the fresh bloom of warmth spreading across my bandages.

Enzo was waiting at the curb with the SUV. He looked grim, his eyes avoiding mine in the rearview mirror.

"Take me to the penthouse," I ordered, climbing in.

"Boss, you're bleeding through the bandage," Enzo warned.

"Drive!"

The ride to the city took twenty minutes. It felt like twenty years. Every stoplight was a torture device; every second felt like sand slipping through my fingers.

I burst into the penthouse the moment the elevator doors opened.

"Elena!" I shouted.

Silence answered me.

Not the quiet of an empty room.

The heavy, suffocating silence of a tomb.

I ran to the master bedroom.

Empty.

I ran to the guest room where she had been staying for the last month.

The closet doors were standing wide open.

Bare hangers rattled in the draft from the air conditioning, skeletal and accusing.

The drawers were pulled out. Empty.

Her sketchbooks were gone. Her perfume bottles were gone.

Even the toothbrush in the bathroom was gone.

There was nothing. Not a stray hair. Not a forgotten earring.

It was as if she had never existed at all.

I stood in the middle of the room, the searing fire in my side forgotten, replaced by a terrifying, glacial cold spreading through my chest.

I looked down at the ring in my hand.

"She's gone," I whispered.

Sofia walked in behind me, looking around with wide, curious eyes.

"Wow," she said, letting out a low whistle. "She really cleaned house."

She walked over to the bed and sat down, bouncing a little on the mattress as if testing it out.

"Well," she smiled, patting the empty space beside her. "At least we don't have to pretend anymore. We have the whole place to ourselves."

I looked at her.

I looked at the woman I had just bled for.

And for the first time, looking at her smile, I didn't feel relief.

I felt sick.