Broken Strings: The Mafia Wife’s Exit

Dante POV The war for the South Side raged for three months. It was bloody. It was brutal. And it was exactly the distraction I needed. I threw myself into the violence, sleeping in muddy trenches and surviving on cold rations. I killed men with my bare hands because the recoil of a gun felt too impersonal. I needed to feel the life leave them. I needed the noise to drown out the silence in my head. When we finally crushed the rival gang, I returned to the estate. It was winter. The Chicago wind cut through my coat like a serrated knife. I walked into the foyer. "I'm home," I called out. Silence. Usually, the house had a rhythm. The shuffle of servants. The faint, haunting melody drifting from the music room. Now, it was dead. "Dante?" Sofia came running down the stairs. She was wearing a silk robe. She looked beautiful, pristine, untouched by the world I had just left. She threw her arms around my neck. "You're back! I missed you so much." I didn't hug her back immediately. I looked over her shoulder, scanning the top of the stairs. "Where is she?" I asked. Sofia pulled back, pouting. "Who?" "Gianna." "She left, Dante. Remember? Her brother took her." "I know she left," I said, peeling her arms off me. "I meant, has she called? Has she sent papers?" "No," a voice said from the drawing room. My sister, Clara, walked out. She was holding a glass of scotch, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "She is gone, Dante. For good." "She is my wife," I said, brushing past Sofia. "She will come back when she realizes she has nowhere else to go." "She is a Vitiello," Clara said. "She has everywhere to go." I poured myself a drink, the amber liquid trembling slightly in the glass. "She loves me. She's just throwing a tantrum." "A tantrum?" Clara laughed. It was a harsh, brittle sound. "You whipped her, Dante. You let your pet psycho over there slice her fingers open." "I didn't do that," I snapped. "Sofia didn't do that. It was an accident." Clara looked at me with pity. "You really are blind." I slammed my glass down. "I am going to bed." I went upstairs. I walked past Gianna's room. The door was open. I looked inside. It was stripped bare. No clothes. No perfume bottles. No cello stand. It looked as if she had been erased. I felt a sharp twinge in my chest. Indigestion, probably. I went to my room. Sofia followed me, a shadow I couldn't shake. "Dante," she purred, sliding her hand up my chest. "You're tense. Let me help you." She undid my shirt. She pushed me onto the bed. She opened her robe. There, on her chest, was the scar. The jagged line she claimed she got from the rocks in the cave when she dragged me out. I looked at it. Usually, it reminded me of her sacrifice. It made me feel indebted. Tonight, however, it looked... neat. Too neat. Almost surgical. "Touch me," she whispered. I reached out. My hand brushed her skin. I felt nothing. No spark. No heat. Just flesh. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the cave. The darkness. The voice singing that Italian lullaby. Dormi, dormi, bel bambino... The voice in my head didn't match the woman in front of me. "Get off," I said. Sofia froze. "What?" "I said get off." I pushed her away. "I'm tired." "But Dante..." "Go to your room, Sofia." She left, slamming the door. I lay in the dark. The silence of the house was suffocating. I missed the music. I missed the way Gianna would look at me across the dinner table, terrified but hopeful. I missed my shield. "I need to go to New York," I said to the empty room. I would go get her. I would apologize. I would buy her a new cello. We would fix this. We had to.