My Ex-Husband's Regret, My Freedom

Aria Vitiello POV: I held my breath, my chest tight to the point of pain. I stared through the narrow gap in the doors, unable to process the visual input. I had personally watched Dante stand as straight as a pine tree while rival gangs fired automatic weapons at him. This image was destroying my reality. Dante was on his knees on the Persian rug. He had both hands planted on the floor, his head bowed. He looked exactly like a dog waiting for a command. Gia looked down at him with absolute disgust and triumph. She extended her bare foot and hooked her big toe under his chin, forcing his head up. Dante didn't snap her leg in half. He didn't explode in rage. Instead, he lifted his face obediently. His eyes were wide, unfocused, and dilated. They were filled with a sick, fanatical desperation. Gia swirled the liquid in her teacup. The pungent, bitter smell of raw chemicals and dark herbs grew stronger. "Say it," Gia commanded. Her voice was sugary sweet but laced with pure venom. "Say the vow." Dante’s Adam's apple bobbed. "You are my queen," he rasped, his voice scraping like sandpaper. "My only one." A violent wave of physical nausea hit me so hard I had to grip the doorframe to stay standing. Stomach acid burned the back of my throat. The truth slammed into me. This wasn't a simple affair. Dante wasn't just cheating. He was completely compromised. He was being pumped full of some heavy neurotoxin or hallucinogen that had entirely shattered his cognitive functions. Gia smiled. She tilted the teacup forward. A stream of dark brown liquid poured directly onto Dante’s lips. Dante lunged forward like a man dying of thirst in the desert. He licked the liquid greedily off his own lips and her skin, not caring that the dark stains were ruining his pristine white shirt. When the cup was empty, Dante let out a long, pathetic sigh of satisfaction. He dropped his head and buried his face against Gia’s knees. Gia began to stroke his dark hair. Then, her eyes shifted. She looked right over the back of the sofa, her gaze shooting straight toward the crack in the door. My heart violently seized. Our eyes locked in the dim light. Gia didn't gasp. She didn't panic. Instead, the corners of her mouth curled up into a slow, incredibly arrogant smirk. She wanted me to see this. She raised her voice, making sure it carried into the hallway. "Some trash should have been swept out a long time ago." Dante didn't even flinch at her loud voice. He was lost in the chemical high. I knew I was exposed. But I didn't push the doors open. I didn't scream or confront her. I took one highly controlled step backward. I turned and moved. I didn't run, but I walked with the fastest, lightest steps I could manage, gliding down the hallway and sprinting up the back servant stairs to the second floor. I reached the furthest guest room, slipped inside, and locked the heavy door behind me. My legs gave out. I slid down the solid wood panels until I hit the floor. I gasped for air, my lungs burning. Cold sweat soaked through my blouse, chilling my spine. If I stayed in this house, Gia would eventually start feeding me the same poison. I would become a drooling lunatic, or worse, I would just disappear into the Long Island Sound. I crawled across the carpet to the nightstand. I reached underneath, feeling for the false bottom. I popped the wooden panel loose and pulled out a cheap, plastic Nokia burner phone. I had hidden it there five years ago. I loved Dante, but I was a mafia daughter; I never fully let my guard down. I held the power button. The small screen flared to life, casting a harsh green glow in the dark room. My fingers trembled slightly as I navigated to the single contact saved in the directory. I pressed call. The line rang exactly once before it connected. There was dead silence on the other end. No breathing, no background noise. I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to turn into solid ice. "It's me." Through the tiny speaker, I heard the sharp metallic *clink* of a Zippo lighter opening, followed by the hiss of a flame. "Aria," a man’s voice answered. It was deep, magnetic, and incredibly dangerous. It was Luca. The underworld’s most elite cleaner, and the only man who had warned me not to marry Dante. Even through the static, I could hear the tight, suppressed emotion in the way he said my name. I closed my eyes. "I need a top-tier scrub. Target is myself." I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed immediately by the loud crash of a heavy chair overturning. "Get me out of this hell, Luca."