Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him

Seraphina Vitiello POV

The Uber idled before the massive iron gates.

It was the morning of the wedding, and the air hummed with frantic energy.

Delivery trucks were lining up to gain entry. Flowers. Catering. The architects of a fairy tale I was about to ruin.

I got out of the car.

I walked to the guard booth, my spine stiff against the lingering pain in my body.

"Call Dante," I said.

The guard hesitated, his gaze flickering over me, then picked up the phone.

A minute later, Dante walked down the driveway.

He looked wrecked. There were dark, bruised circles under his eyes, like he hadn't slept in days.

He saw me and scowled.

"You're supposed to be on a plane to London," he said.

His voice was rough, a scrape of gravel.

"I missed my flight," I lied.

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure exhaustion.

"Jesus, Seraphina. Do you ever stop being a burden? I don't have time for this. I have to get married in four hours."

"I know," I said.

I held out the white box.

"I just wanted to give you this."

He looked at it suspiciously, making no move to touch it.

"What is it?"

"A wedding gift," I said, forcing the title past my lips. "For my brother-in-law."

He didn't take it.

Marco, his underboss, stepped forward and took the box from my hand.

"Check it for bombs," Dante muttered.

I almost smiled.

It *is* a bomb, Dante, I thought. Just not the kind that explodes. It’s the kind that leaves nothing behind.

"I'm not going to London," I said softly.

He looked at me then. Really looked at me, his eyes searching mine for the game I was playing.

"What?"

"I'm going away," I said. "Somewhere you will never find me."

"Good," he said.

The word hung in the air between us.

Cold. Absolving. Final.

He turned his back on me.

He walked back up the driveway, moving towards the house where my sister was waiting to marry him.

He walked towards the lie he had chosen.

I watched him go until he was just a blur against the manicured landscape.

"Goodbye, Dante," I whispered.

I got back into the Uber.

"Airport," I told the driver.

As we merged onto the highway, I rolled down the window.

I took the SIM card out of my phone.

With a sharp *snap*, I broke it in half.

I threw it out the window.

I watched it bounce on the asphalt and disappear into the rush of traffic.

The wind whipped my hair across my face.

I took a deep breath.

It hurt my bruised ribs, but the air tasted different.

It didn't taste like blood or expensive cologne or fear.

It tasted like nothing.

And nothing was exactly what I wanted to be.

The girl who loved Dante Moretti died in a basement in Chicago.

The woman who landed in Sydney would be someone else entirely.

I closed my eyes and let the distance swallow me whole.