The Runaway Wife: Never Forgiving You
Chapter 7
Elena POV
I didn't cry.
Tears are for the living.
Tears are for those who still hold onto the hope that things can be fixed.
I walked into the room.
The silence was heavy, pressing physically against my eardrums.
I picked up a washcloth from the basin.
I dipped it in the water.
I wiped Luca's face.
I cleaned the soot of the city from his forehead.
I straightened his hospital gown.
Then, I pulled the white sheet up over his face, shrouding the eyes that would never open again.
Dante watched me for a moment, then left with Sofia.
He probably thought I was in shock.
He probably thought I would break down later, that he could comfort me then, and I would be pathetic and grateful.
He didn't know he had just killed the only reason I stayed.
I rode in the hearse alone.
I sat in the crematorium waiting room for four hours.
Finally, they handed me a heavy ceramic urn.
It was warm.
That was all that was left of my brother. A warm jar of ash.
I took a taxi to the cemetery.
It was raining-a cold, miserable New York drizzle that seeped into everything.
I found the plot.
It was a pauper's grave, the only one I could afford with the cash in my pocket.
I dug the hole myself with a garden trowel I had bought at a convenience store.
I buried the urn.
I sat there in the mud.
One hour.
Five hours.
Twelve hours.
The sun went down. The sun came up.
The rain soaked through my clothes, chilling me to the bone, but I felt nothing.
I was dead, too. I was just waiting for my body to catch up.
When I finally stood up, my legs were stiff.
I walked back to the main road and hailed a cab.
"To the Villa," I said.
I walked through the front door of the house that had been my prison.
The air smelled of lilies and sex.
I heard them in the living room.
Giggles. Moans. The friction of skin on skin.
I walked past the open archway.
Dante was on the sofa, Sofia straddling him.
Her head was thrown back in ecstasy.
His hands were gripping her hips.
He looked up as I passed.
His eyes widened slightly, seeing my muddy, soaked clothes.
"Elena?" he called out, his voice rough with passion.
I didn't stop.
I didn't blink.
I walked up the stairs, my muddy footprints ruining the pristine white carpet with every step.
I went to my room and closed the door.
I stripped off my wet clothes.
I stood in the shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing the grave dirt from my skin.
The door handle turned.
Dante entered.
He smelled of her.
Cheap perfume and sweat.
My stomach lurched. I dry heaved, clutching my towel.
"Don't," I rasped.
He crossed the room in two strides.
He grabbed my face, forcing me to look at him.
"Where have you been?" he demanded. "You disappeared for twenty-four hours."
"I buried him," I said flatly.
Dante paused. "Who?"
"Luca."
He frowned. "Don't be dramatic. I just had the machines turned off to teach you a lesson. He's fine."
He didn't know.
He hadn't even checked.
I looked at this man. This monster I had loved for a decade.
If I told him Luca was dead, he would lock me up.
He would put me on suicide watch.
He would never let me leave.
He needed to believe he still held the leash.
"You're right," I lied. My voice was hollow, devoid of life. "I'm sorry, Dante. I was dramatic."
He relaxed.
He leaned in and kissed me.
It was a possessive, bruising kiss. A brand.
I forced myself not to vomit.
I stood still, letting him take what he wanted, like a doll.
"See?" he whispered against my lips. "You need me. If you ever try to leave again, I'll make sure Luca suffers for real."
I nodded.
"I can't live without you, Dante," I whispered.
He smiled. It was the smile of a predator who had caught his prey.
"Good girl."
He left to go back to Sofia.
I waited five minutes.
My phone buzzed.
ID Ready. Flight LH404 departs in 3 hours.
I didn't pack clothes.
I didn't pack jewelry.
I went to the closet and pulled out a small, velvet bag.
Inside was a handful of soil from Luca's grave.
That was all I took.
I walked out the back door.
I climbed the fence.
I ran into the night, and I didn't look back.
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