The Runaway Wife: Never Forgiving You

Dante POV

My office had become a graveyard of shattered glass and expensive mahogany.

The staff outside my door were silent. They could hear the destruction. They could smell the violence radiating off me like heat rising from black pavement.

I sat in the ruins of my leather chair, my gaze fixed on the phone lying on the floor.

It hadn't rung.

It wasn't going to.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

I expected Matteo.

Instead, I got Sofia.

She stormed in, clad in a white dress that likely cost more than Elena's entire wardrobe from the last five years.

"What is going on out there?" she shrieked.

She stepped delicately over a shattered lamp, her nose wrinkling in visible disgust.

"Why is everyone crying? And why haven't we left for the gala? You promised me a night to remember, Dante."

I looked up at her.

For the first time in months, I really looked at her.

I didn't see the artist. I didn't see the fragile bird I once thought I needed to protect.

I saw a vulture.

Her eyes weren't soft; they were calculating. Her mouth wasn't shaped for kisses; it was shaped for demands.

"Get out," I said. My voice was a low rasp, like gravel grinding together.

"Excuse me?" She planted a hand on her hip, indignation flashing across her face. "You don't talk to me like that. I am the future Mrs. Vitiello."

She laughed then-a sharp, grating sound that scraped against my nerves.

"Is this about her? Is this about the street rat? Did she finally run away to the gutter where she belongs?"

Something inside me snapped. A tether that had been fraying for weeks finally broke.

I stood up.

I crossed the room before she could draw another breath.

My hand wrapped around her throat.

I lifted her off the ground.

Her feet kicked at the empty air. Her eyes bulged. Her perfectly manicured nails clawed at my wrist, scratching deep red lines into my skin.

I didn't feel it.

"Don't you ever speak her name," I whispered, bringing her face close to mine so she could see the death in my eyes.

"You aren't worth the dirt on her shoes. You aren't worth the air she breathes."

"Dante... p-please..." she choked out.

I held her there for ten seconds.

I wanted to squeeze. I wanted to feel something break.

But killing her here, now, was too easy.

I opened my hand.

She dropped to the floor in a heap, gasping for air, clutching her bruised neck.

"Get out," I repeated.

She scrambled backward, crab-walking over the broken glass, terror finally replacing her arrogance.

She fled the room without looking back.

Matteo walked in a moment later.

He didn't look at the mess. He didn't look at the blood dripping from my hand.

He held a thick manila folder.

It looked heavy.

"Sir," he said quietly. "The investigation is complete."

He placed the folder on the only corner of the desk that wasn't destroyed.

"You need to read this. All of it."