Page 44 of Married to the Ruthless Mafia Heir

I was Dante's wife. But what else was I?

He didn't love me.

That fact sealed my defeat against Valentina. She was his first love. He'd spent years searching for her. How could I ever compete with that?

I had no strength left to face any of it. I turned and went back to my room.

My finished sketch was still spread on the desk, the measuring tape beside it. I sat down and picked up the paper, looking at every line I'd drawn—the shoulders, the waist, the curve of the lapels, the mother-of-pearl button on the cuff.

Tears fell without warning, one after another, landing on the sketch and blurring the green ink lines. I wiped at my face, but the tears kept coming. Finally I broke down completely, sobbing like an abandoned child.

I couldn't hear what was happening downstairs, but I could picture it. Dante would be his usual gentlemanly self. He'd serve her food, maybe wipe the corner of her mouth. They'd talk about old times. They'd laugh.

And I'd never had any of that.

I cried until my head spun, nearly falling from the chair before I caught the edge of the desk. My stomach twisted with nausea, but nothing came up.

Then the door slammed open. I thought it was Lucia. I was lying on the bed, exhausted. "Are they gone?"

Dante laughed bitterly. "That eager to get rid of me?"

I froze, then sat up. He stood over me, angrier than I'd ever seen him—angrier than the night he'd been drugged.

He was terrifying. His tie hung loose, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked at me with a twisted smile and asked, "What the hell are you crying about, Elena?"

I looked up at him through blurred vision, my mouth opening. "I—"

Before I could speak, Dante yanked a stack of photos from his pocket and threw them in my face. I raised my arms to block them. One sharp corner sliced across my forearm, drawing blood.

But I didn't feel the pain. I was staring at the photos scattered around me.

They were of me. And Luca.

Every single one from this afternoon in the garden—us talking, laughing, our heads close together, our bodies near. The angles made it look intimate. Inappropriate.

Every shot was crystal clear. But the framing was deliberate, twisting an innocent meeting into something it wasn't.

I looked back up at Dante. I tried to explain. But his eyes were full of rage—barely contained fury that burned from the depths of his blue gaze all the way to his brow.

"So tell me." His voice was low and controlled, each word deliberate. "Elena. What the hell are you crying about?"

Chapter Sixteen

Dante

Elena cried. But what right did she have to cry?

When I got those photos this afternoon, I wanted to storm Lombardi Estate, drag that punk Luca Lombardi out, and break his arms and legs as a warning to stay the hell away from my wife.

Photos scattered across the floor. Elena sat on the bed, watching me. A thin cut on her arm from the photo's edge leaked tiny beads of blood.

"Dante." Her voice still shook, but steadier than before. "You had me watched?"

Watched? Ridiculous. This was Moretti Manor—my territory. They met right under my nose, looking so damn happy together. Did I need to spy for that?

I let out a cold laugh. "You two weren't exactly hiding. Why would I need to go out of my way?"

"He just came to bring me books!" Her voice shot up suddenly, tears brimming. "There's nothing between us. But you—why did you bring Valentina back here? This is our home. Why would you humiliate me like that?"