Nine-Year Marriage Cost Me Everything

Dante Vittori's female secretary was pregnant.

On the night of our ninth anniversary, he brought her home to the compound.

His tone was breezy, the way a man sounds when he is reading terms off a contract he has already signed without you: "The girl's a picky eater. From now on, three meals a day, no repeats."

"She gets scared at night and needs someone with her. Pack your things and move to the guest room."

I didn't say a word. The villa was quiet in the way only a Vittori property could be quiet, every surface polished to a mirror shine, every shadow occupied by someone paid to listen. I picked up the suitcase I'd already packed and walked calmly toward the front door. My heels struck the obsidian tile and the sound carried through the foyer like a slow, deliberate count.

The housekeeper stepped into my path, her face a mask of professional alarm.

Dante didn't even look up from the glass of Barolo he was pouring for Nina.

"Let her throw her little tantrum. She'll come crawling back inside three days."

Everyone in the room laughed.

Right in front of me, they placed bets. Ten million on it.

That I wouldn't last the night before I came whimpering back like a lapdog, begging Dante to let me in.

One of the soldiers muttered a number. The other matched it.

Nina covered her mouth with delicate fingers and laughed again, and the sound bounced off the coffered ceiling and settled into my chest like a bruise.

I kept walking. My thumb found the bare place on my ring finger, the skin smooth and pale where a band had sat for nine years, and I pressed the pad against it once before I let my hand fall.

But what they didn’t know was that a Maybach was already waiting for me outside.

This time, I was really leaving.

——

I was almost through the front door, my hand on the iron latch, when Dante's voice reached me from behind. It was not raised. It never needed to be. In this house, in every room the Vittori name touched, his voice at a conversational register carried the weight of a verdict.

"Lucia Bellini. Leave the heirloom bracelet. Nina's been having nightmares."

I stopped.

That bracelet was the only thing my parents left me. A strand of antique cameos and seed pearls that my mother had clasped around my wrist the morning of the alliance ceremony, whispering that it would keep me safe. It had not kept me safe. Nothing had. But it was mine, the last proof that a life before this house had ever existed, and he knew it.

He met my reddening eyes without a flicker of warmth. The saint medal was turning across his knuckles in a slow, silver arc, catching the chandelier light, and the rhythm of it never faltered.

"Name your price."

Nine years of marriage spent lower than dirt. How much could that possibly be worth?

I didn't bother calculating.

All I knew was that the last time I'd refused to hand my ski goggles over to Nina, he'd stripped me bare and left me halfway up the mountain, alone in the dark and the wind, until a passing ski patrol found me shaking too hard to speak. He had called it a lesson in generosity. Nina had called it hilarious. By the time I was brought back to the lodge, they were sharing fondue by the fire.

I unclasped the heirloom bracelet and slipped it onto Nina's wrist.

I said to her: "I hope the baby in your belly is born safe and sound."

That blessing must have surprised him, because for once, Dante threw me a scrap of mercy. His gaze lingered on my face a beat longer than usual, the medal pausing mid-roll before resuming its circuit. "Lucia, as long as you behave, my child will be your child too."

The words had barely left his mouth when the bracelet slid off Nina's wrist and shattered on the floor.

The cameos hit the obsidian tile and burst apart, scattering pale shards across the dark stone like teeth knocked loose. Nina flinched. A sliver caught her leg just above the ankle, and a thin line of red opened on her skin.

The moment he saw the cut on Nina's leg, Dante scooped her up in his arms. He moved without hesitation, the way he moved when a deal went wrong or a soldier brought bad news, every trace of leisure gone from his body in the space of a heartbeat. He barked at the housekeeper to call the family doctor. Now. Not the clinic line. The private number. The one reserved for the Don's household.

The panic on his face had everyone in the room turning to look at me with open amusement. The soldiers by the doors traded a glance. The housekeeper pressed her lips together and reached for the phone, but not before I caught the small, knowing look she slid in my direction, the look reserved for someone who has just been found surplus.

And honestly, it wasn't just them who found it funny.

Even I thought it was laughable.

Last night, when my heart gave out, Dante had been on his way to watch a meteor shower with Nina. A car had been idling for them in the courtyard, the backseat arranged with cashmere blankets and a bottle of Krug, and the soldiers on gate duty had radioed ahead to clear the coastal road. I was foaming at the mouth, collapsed on the floor of the master bathroom, my fingers clawing at the cold marble, and he stepped over me without changing expression. His shoe had come close enough to my hand that I could see the stitching on the sole.

Before I lost consciousness, I heard him tell the housekeeper: "Have someone disinfect the entire living room. Nina's coming home tomorrow, and I don't want her smelling anything unpleasant."

I tightened my grip on the suitcase handle and turned to leave, but he seized my wrist, his face cold. The saint medal had vanished. His fist was closed around it, knuckles white, and the absence of that small silver motion drained the last warmth from the room.

"Apologize."

"Wh—"

Before I could finish, he'd dragged me down to my knees at Nina's feet.

Shards of cameo and pearl bit into my kneecaps, and blood spread across the white-veined obsidian. The pain was bright and specific, a constellation of tiny punctures, and I could feel each fragment settle deeper as my weight pressed down. Nina looked at me from the cradle of Dante's arms. Her tongue wet her lower lip, just a flash, and then her expression folded back into something injured and small.

Dante saw the stain on the floor, curled his lip in disgust, and let go of my wrist.

"You pulled some stunt to break Nina's bracelet, and she got hurt because of it. Don't you think you owe her an apology?"

After I married Dante Vittori, "I'm sorry" became the most-used phrase in my vocabulary.

The soup was too bland. I'm sorry. I was worried he'd feel sick from drinking too much and texted to check on him. I'm sorry for the disturbance. I accidentally saw Nina's text inviting him to a hotel suite the Family kept on the upper floors of the Vittori Grand. I'm truly sorry for invading his privacy.

I bit down until I tasted flesh, then forced myself upright.

I bowed to Nina, a full ninety degrees, three times, and said it three times. The words left my mouth hollow and practiced, muscle memory more than language, and each time I bent forward the shards ground a little deeper into my knees and the blood soaked a little further into the hem of my dress.

Then I looked at Dante.

My voice was quiet. "Is that enough?"

His eyes dropped to the blood at the corner of my mouth, and his chest visibly rose once before he spoke. The closed fist at his side did not open.

"Lucia, the old man isn't here to protect you. Who exactly are you putting on this disgusting little victim act for?"

Before I could answer, the family doctor rushed in, bag in hand, a soldier holding the door wide for him.

Dante shoved me out of the way and led the doctor straight to Nina.