Into The Rival's Arms: The Decoy's Escape
I stood behind the velvet curtain, clutching a positive pregnancy test, waiting for the perfect moment to tell Dante our family was growing.
Instead, I heard him laugh.
"She is not the bride," Dante told his Consigliere, swirling his fifty-year-old scotch. "She is the bulletproof vest I wear until it is safe for Sofia to enter the city. When the bullets stop flying, we throw the vest in the trash."
My world shattered.
When Sofia arrived that night, she didn't just take my place; she boiled my beloved cat for dinner. Dante didn't defend me. He told me to clean up the mess or face punishment.
To prove his devotion to her, he had his men drag me to "The Pit"—an underground fight club.
I was thrown into a cage with a starving Doberman.
I looked up at the VIP box, begging the man I loved to save me. Instead, Dante pressed the intercom button, his voice booming over the speakers.
"One million dollars on the dog," he said. "She won't last three minutes."
He covered Sofia's eyes to protect her innocence while the beast tore the flesh from my arm.
That night, Elena Vance died in the dirt.
One year later, the grieving Dante Moretti attended a gala for a mysterious new artist in New York.
He dropped his champagne glass when he saw me on stage, alive, wearing a dress that revealed my ruined, scarred arm.
"I didn't leave you, Dante," I said into the microphone, my voice cold as ice.
"You killed me. And now, I'm here to collect my winnings."
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Chapter 2
The cleaner was already inside the penthouse when I returned.
He was a mountain of a man, neckless and dead-eyed, standing in the center of the living room I had so carefully curated. He was currently draping heavy plastic sheets over the pristine white sofas.
I knew exactly what that meant.
Plastic sheets were not for painting. They were for blood.
"Get out," I said, though my voice lacked the authority it should have had.
He didn't even look at me. "Mr. Moretti said you are being... relocated. The new mistress is moving in tonight."
Relocated.
I walked past him, my heels clicking on the marble floor like a countdown. The stone suddenly felt like ice beneath my feet. I needed to leave, but not without insurance.
I needed the Ledger. It was hidden in the false bottom of my jewelry box.
I reached the bedroom door, but the handle refused to turn. Locked.
"Open it!" I demanded, banging my fist against the wood.
The sound of the front door opening behind me made me freeze.
I turned to see Sofia Falcone strutting in, followed closely by Dante. She was holding a flute of champagne, surveying the apartment like she was inspecting a cheap hotel room she wasn't impressed with.
"A bit tacky, isn't it?" she said, gesturing vaguely to my art on the walls. "All this sentimental garbage."
Dante closed the door behind him. The lock clicked with a finality that made my stomach drop.
"Elena," he said. His voice was calm. Transactional. "You are making a scene."
"A scene?" I laughed, the sound tearing out of my throat, hysterical and broken. "You used me as a human shield for eight years, Dante. You let me believe we were a family."
"We were never a family," he replied, adjusting his cuffs. "You were an employee. You were compensated well in clothes and food."
Sofia walked over to the mantle. She picked up a framed photo of my mother-the only photo I had of her.
"Is this the whore who birthed you?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Don't touch that," I warned, my voice trembling.
Sofia smiled cruelly and dropped the frame. The glass shattered with a sharp crunch. She stepped on the photo with her stiletto heel, grinding my mother's face into the dust.
I lunged at her.
It was instinct. Pure, blinding rage.
But before I could reach her, a hand grabbed my hair and yanked me back.
Dante shoved me.
I flew backward, my hip slamming into the sharp corner of the marble coffee table. Pain exploded in my side, radiating down my leg like fire. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air.
Dante stood over me, impassive.
"You do not touch a Made Woman, Elena," he said coldly. "That is a death sentence."
Sofia pouted, clinging to Dante's arm like a vine. "She attacked me, baby. She's dangerous. She needs to learn her place."
Dante looked down at me. There was no love in his eyes. Only annoyance.
"The Reflection Room," he ordered the cleaner.
"No," I begged, trying to crawl away, panic seizing my chest. "Not the room."
The Reflection Room was a windowless closet in the hallway. It was soundproof. It was where Dante put people when he wanted them to break.
The cleaner grabbed my arms and dragged me across the floor. I screamed, kicking and fighting, but he was too strong. He was immovable.
Dante turned his back to me, pouring Sofia another drink.
I was thrown into the darkness.
The door slammed shut.
The lock engaged.
I was alone with the silence and the throbbing pain in my hip.
I curled into a ball on the cold floor, wrapping my arms around myself to keep from falling apart.
I realized then that the plastic sheets in the living room weren't for me. Not yet.
They were keeping me alive for something worse.
I closed my eyes and prayed that Valerio Santoro was as ruthless as the stories said.
Because I didn't need a savior.
I needed a monster to kill a monster.