Bound to the Devil

Sofia Vitiello POV

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved.

He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half the criminal underworld in Chicago, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again.

"Done," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion.

That was Matteo Bellini. The Underboss. The Reaper. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports.

I sat across from Mia in the high-security cafe, watching the rain streak against the bulletproof glass. My hands were folded in my lap, perfectly still. I was trained to be still. I was the Caged Canary, the silent Bellini wife.

"He signed them?" Mia whispered, her eyes wide with horror and a twisted sort of impressed disbelief. "Just like that?"

"He was distracted," I said softly. "Isabella was having a crisis about a broken heel or a chipped nail. I don't remember which."

Mia slammed her coffee cup down. "He is a monster, Sofia. A blind, arrogant monster. You've been scrubbing his blood out of his shirts for three years. You saved his family's alliance when that little brat ran off with a civilian. And he treats you like furniture."

"Furniture is useful," I corrected her, taking a sip of my tea. It tasted like ash. "I am less than that. I am merely ornamental. A placeholder."

I looked out the window. A convoy of black armored SUVs glided to a precision halt at the curb. The pedestrians scattered like pigeons. They knew that formation. They knew who was inside.

Matteo Bellini didn't just walk into a room; he conquered it. He was the most lethal predator in the city, a man who had taken over the Chicago Outfit's enforcement division at twenty-two and turned it into a machine of absolute terror. He had killed men for looking at me the wrong way, yet he couldn't look at me himself.

"He's here," I said.

Mia reached for my hand. "Do you have the exit plan?"

"Seattle," I breathed. "Elena secured the apartment. The flight is in two weeks. Until then, I play the part."

The cafe door opened. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop. Two soldiers walked in first, scanning the perimeter with cold, dead eyes. Then Matteo entered.

He was wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than this building. His dark hair was swept back, revealing a face that was beautiful in the way a thunderstorm is beautiful—destructive and captivating. He walked straight to my table, ignoring everyone else.

"Sofia," he said. It wasn't a greeting. It was a command.

"Matteo," I replied, standing up smoothly. "We are leaving. My mother expects us for dinner."

He didn't look at Mia. He turned and walked out, expecting me to follow. I always followed.

I gave Mia a small, sad smile and walked into the rain. A soldier held an umbrella over me, but Matteo was already inside the SUV. I slid onto the leather seat beside him. The car smelled of expensive cologne, gun oil, and the faint, cloying scent of vanilla perfume.

Isabella's perfume.

The convoy started moving. The silence in the car was heavy, suffocating. Matteo was typing on his phone, his brow furrowed.

"That file I signed weeks ago," he said suddenly, not looking up. "The vendor contract for the shipping lines. Did you file it?"

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Yes," I lied. "It's being processed."

He hummed, a low vibration in his chest. "Good. I don't want any loose ends before the transition."

He was becoming Don soon. He wanted a clean slate. I was giving him the cleanest slate possible—a life without me.

His phone rang. The ringtone was specific. It pierced the quiet like a siren.

Matteo answered immediately. "Isabella."

I looked out the window, counting the raindrops.

"Slow down," Matteo said, his voice shifting from cold command to something softer, something urgent. "Where are you? Who is there?"

He listened for a moment, his jaw tightening. The temperature in the car dropped ten degrees.

"I don't care who his father is," Matteo snarled into the phone. "If he touched you, he loses the hand. Stay there. I'm coming."

He hung up. He tapped the partition glass. "Change of plans. Go to the Meatpacking District."

"Matteo," I said quietly. "Your mother."

He finally looked at me. His eyes were like ice, blue and impenetrable. "Isabella is in trouble. Some street trash cornered her."

"She is a Capo's daughter," I said, my voice steady. "She has her own guards."

"She called me," he said, as if that explained everything. As if that justified stranding his wife in the middle of the city.

The car pulled over to the curb. It wasn't the estate. It was a street corner five blocks from our home.

"Take the second car back," Matteo ordered. "I need the team with me."

He was kicking me out. To go save the woman who had left him at the altar, the woman whose mess I had cleaned up for three years.

I opened the door. The rain was coming down harder now.

"Matteo," I said, pausing with one foot on the pavement. "You signed the papers."

He looked at me, impatient, his mind already on her. "I know, Sofia. You told me."

"I just wanted to make sure you remembered," I said.

I stepped out. The door slammed shut behind me, and the convoy sped away, tires spraying dirty water onto my shoes. I stood there for a moment, watching the taillights disappear, realizing that for the first time in three years, I didn't feel the sting of tears. I just felt cold.