Too Late, Mr. Don: The Wife You Buried

Aria POV The double doors to the study crashed against the paneling. Dante rushed in, Gia close on his heels. He didn't look at me. He didn't even glance at the red, blistering skin on my hand. He went straight to the boy writhing on the floor. "Leo!" Dante roared, scooping the child into his arms. "She did it on purpose!" Leo sobbed, burying his face in Dante's chest. "She said she hates me!" Dante turned to me. His eyes were black pits, pupils blown wide. There was no recognition in them, no memory of the ten years we had spent together. There was only the drug-fueled rage of a protector defending his pack. "What is wrong with you?" he spat. I held my wrist, the skin peeling back in angry strips. "Dante, he dropped the tureen," I stammered. "He burned me." "Liar!" Gia shrieked. She rushed to Dante's side, stroking Leo's hair. "She is jealous, Dante. She is jealous because she is broken. Because she cannot give you what I gave you." Dante's gaze dropped to my stomach. The look of disgust on his face shattered whatever was left of my heart. "You are a monster," he said, his voice low and venomous. "You attack a child because of your own failure?" "My failure?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "You swore to protect me." "I protect my family," Dante snarled. "Get out of my sight. If you touch him again, Aria, I will forget who you were to me." He turned his back. He walked away, carrying the boy who was smirking into his shoulder. Gia followed, pausing at the doorway to look back at me. She didn't say a word. She just smiled, a victory lap in silence. I stood there frozen for a long time. The soup was drying tacky and stiff on my skin. The burn throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a distinct, rhythmic agony. I walked to the kitchen sink. I ran cold water over my hand. I wrapped it in a towel. I did it all mechanically, like a robot programmed only for survival. I remembered a time when a waiter had spilled wine on my dress. Dante had broken the man's fingers. Now, I was the enemy. I went upstairs to my room. I sat on the edge of the bed we used to share. An hour later, the door opened. Dante stood there. He looked exhausted, the manic energy fading into a chemical slump. "I am sleeping in Leo's room tonight," he said. "He is traumatized." I didn't look at him. I stared at the white bandage on my hand. "Okay," I said. He lingered. Maybe he expected a fight. Maybe deep down, the real Dante was screaming to get out. But the drugs were stronger. "Good," he said. He left. I lay down in the dark. The walls of the estate were thick, but not thick enough. I heard the door to the guest wing open. I heard Gia's voice, low and murmuring. I heard Dante's deep rumble. And then I heard the rhythmic creak of the bedsprings. The sounds of my husband taking another woman in the house my father had built. I didn't cry. Tears were for the living. My marriage was a corpse, and I was just waiting for the funeral.