Chapter 2

The woman wearing my face called Dante her husband.

I turned toward the door, still holding his wrist.

She stood there in a red silk dress, with my old hair, my old mouth, and the tiny beauty mark under my left eye.

My hand slipped from Dante’s arm.

The woman crossed the room fast and slapped me so hard I hit the carpet.

My ear rang.

Before I could lift my head, she slapped me again.

Her ring had sharp little points around the band. One of them tore into my cheek.

Blood ran down my jaw.

“You cheap bitch,” she snapped. “Who told you to touch my husband?”

I looked past her at Dante. Say something. Tell her I am Elena. Tell her I am your wife.

Dante stood.

For one stupid second, I had hope.

Then he stepped over me and pulled her into his arms.

“Bianca,” he said. “Enough.”

Bianca. So that was her name.

She pressed herself against him and pointed at me. “She had her hands all over you.”

“She’s nothing,” Dante said.

Nothing.

I had survived ten years on his name and he erased me in one word.

Bianca forced tears. “Then why was she beside you?”

Dante's hand settled on her waist, gentle and familiar.

That touch used to be mine.

“I came here for business,” he said. “The girls in this place don’t interest me.”

Bianca pouted. “Really?”

Dante looked down at me. No warmth.

“Really,” he said. “I don’t touch Valli trash.”

A few men laughed.

One of them leaned toward another and whispered, “The Doll is jealous tonight.”

The other man muttered, “Careful. Don Moretti still loses his mind when anyone mentions Elena.”

Elena.

My name.

They knew my name. They knew Dante had a wife. They knew I was missing.

And yet he stood there with a woman built from my stolen face.

I pushed myself onto my knees. My cheek throbbed. Blood dripped onto the carpet.

“Dante,” I whispered.

His jaw tightened.

He heard me.

I knew he had heard me.

Bianca turned slowly. “What did you call him?”

I tried to crawl toward him. “Dante, please. It’s me.”

Her heel came down on my wrist.

Pain shot up my arm.

“You don’t get to say his name,” she said. “You don’t get to look at him.”

She slapped me again.

This time I stayed upright. I would not fall for her. I would not give her the pleasure.

“Look at me,” I begged him. “Please.”

Dante picked up his glass.

He didn’t deny it.

“I was being polite before,” he said. “Don’t mistake that for interest.”

My vision blurred.

“You women hear a man’s name and think it gives you power,” he went on. “It doesn’t.”

Bianca smiled. She bent close to my face. Her perfume made my stomach turn.

“You heard him,” she said. “Crawl back to whatever basement they found you in.”

Dante did not stop her.

He did not look at the blood on my face and ask why I knew his scar.

He turned away from me and set his glass down.

Then the VIP door opened again.

Every guard near the entrance straightened.

An older man walked in with silver hair, a gray suit, and a smile I had feared for ten years.

Lorenzo Valli.

The man who took me.

The man Dante was supposed to kill.

Lorenzo opened his arms.

“Don Moretti,” he said.

And Dante smiled back.

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