The Runaway Wife: Never Forgiving You

I woke up in my old bedroom, but it felt more like a prison cell.

My back was burning, the skin feeling as though it were still being licked by flames.

Every breath was a struggle, a ragged gasp against the tightness in my chest.

Dante sat in the armchair, nursing a cigarette.

The smoke curled around his head, wreathing him in a dark, toxic halo.

"You are awake," he said.

He did not ask how I was. His voice was devoid of any husbandly concern.

"Tonight is the Family Gala," he announced flatly. "Sofia wants to hear music. Specifically, she wants you to play the violin."

I tried to sit up, but the searing pain forced me back down.

"I can't," I rasped, my throat dry.

"You will," he countered.

"Don Vitiello," I said, using his formal title like a weapon.

He stiffened. He hated when I called him that.

"Drop the attitude," he warned, his eyes narrowing. "Be ready in an hour."

With agonizing slowness, I put on an old black dress.

It hung loose on my frame now.

I had lost at least ten pounds in a week.

Crucially, it covered the bandages on my back.

An hour later, I arrived at the hotel ballroom.

The air smelled of expensive perfume and underlying fear.

The wives of the Capos eyed me.

They used to bow to me.

Now, they covered their mouths and tittered behind manicured hands.

"Look at the fallen queen," one whispered audibly.

I walked to the stage, forcing one foot in front of the other.

My legs shook.

I remembered Don Giovanni, Dante's grandfather.

A Vitiello breaks what he loves, he had told me once.

He was right.

Then Dante entered.

The room went silent.

He had Sofia on his arm.

She wore triumphant red.

She looked radiant, a stark contrast to my fading shadow.

She treated him like a prized pet, patting his hand condescendingly.

Dante let her.

He looked up at the stage.

Play, he mouthed.

I lifted my violin to my chin.

I played Adagio in G Minor.

It was a sad, heavy piece.

It was a funeral dirge for my marriage.

The music filled the room, silencing the malicious whispers.

For a moment, Dante looked at me.

He really looked at me.

Then, Sofia stood up abruptly.

"Stop this noise!" she shouted, her voice piercing the melancholy melody.

"She is cursing us with this funeral music!"

The room gasped.

But Dante laughed.

He actually laughed.

He stood up and took Sofia's hand.

"You are right, my love," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Let's dance to something alive."

The band immediately struck up a jazz number.

Dante led Sofia to the floor.

He spun her around, full of life and vigor.

I stood alone on the stage, my bow hanging limply by my side.

I was a ghost at my own wake.