Chapter 3 - Blood on the Marble
Dante Romano woke with a searing headache at 5:45 a.m.
He sat on the leather sofa in his private study, his collar unbuttoned, an empty glass of scotch resting on the low table beside him. The house was unnaturally quiet. Usually, by this hour, the aroma of espresso would drift from the kitchen, and he would hear the faint, melodic cadence of Emma’s voice as she greeted the morning staff.
His right hand twitched. He looked down at his open palm, disgust crawling through his veins like venom.
He had struck her.
The image replayed behind his closed eyelids with brutal clarity: Emma’s pale face turning beneath the impact, the delicate tremble of her diamond earring, and that awful, quiet question that had ripped through his chest: *Who protects our baby from you?*
He had allowed Bianca’s insolence to spiral out of control. When Emma had slapped Bianca, all his instincts as Don—conditioned to suppress chaos, maintain absolute order, and punish insubordination—had fired without thought. But Emma was not a soldier. Emma was his wife. She was carrying the Romano heir.
"Damn it," Dante growled, dragging both hands down his face.
He stood up, intending to go to the nursery, pull her into his arms, and make her understand. He would banish Bianca from Chicago by midday. He would buy Emma whatever she wanted; he would kneel on the floor and let her strike him until her anger dissolved.
He took the grand staircase two steps at a time. The house felt vacant, hollowed out of its life.
He pushed open the door to their master bedroom. The king-sized bed was pristine, the silk sheets untouched.
A knot tightened in his throat. He crossed the hall to the nursery. "Emma?"
The room was bathed in the pale, gray light of dawn. The silver stars Dante had ordered from Florence hung motionless from the ceiling. The pale blue walls offered no warmth.
The crib was empty.
On the mahogany dresser sat a single white envelope.
Dante approached it as though it were an explosive device. With trembling fingers, he picked up the envelope. Out rolled her wedding ring—a band of platinum set with five flawless diamonds. Beside it lay no letter, no recrimination, no farewell.
Just the ring.
"Emma!" Dante roared, his voice tearing through the silence of the estate.
He sprinted down the corridor, slamming doors open. "Emma! Where the hell are you?!"
Footsteps echoed up the grand stairs. Marco Bellini appeared, his face tight with tension, followed by Isabella Romano. The matriarch wore black silk, her posture rigid, her gaze cutting like a razor.
"Dante," Marco began, his hand instinctively resting on his holster. "What happened?"
"Where is my wife?" Dante seized Marco by the lapels of his suit jacket, slamming the seasoned lieutenant against the wall. "Where is Emma?!"
"She's gone, Dante," Isabella's voice cut through the room, cold and level.
Dante released Marco, rounding on his mother. "What do you mean, gone? She’s seven months pregnant! It’s freezing outside! Find her! Marco, lock down the city! Check the train stations, the private runways, call the precinct captains—"
"Stop it!" Isabella snapped, striking the marble floor with the tip of her cane.
Dante froze, his chest heaving, his dark hair disheveled.
"You brought a common whore to sit at our table," Isabella said, her voice dripping with venomous disdain. "You allowed that creature to bait your wife, and when Emma stood up for her dignity and the child in her womb, you struck her like a street thug. You broke the cardinal law of this family: *A Romano defends his own.*"
"She slapped Bianca in front of my council!" Dante yelled, his composure completely shattering. "I had to keep order!"
"You kept nothing," Isabella said softly, stepping closer until she was inches from his face. "You traded your wife’s devotion and your child’s safety for the cheap adoration of a viper. Emma didn't run from an enemy, Dante. She ran from you. And if she has any sense left in her head, she will ensure you never see that child’s face."
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The words struck Dante harder than any bullet ever had. He staggered backward, his breathing ragged, staring at the platinum ring clutched tightly in his fist.
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