Chapter 2 - The Taste Of Chamomile
I stepped back silently onto the Turkish runner, my dress shoes making no sound against the dense wool. Moving like a shadow down the spiral staircase, I walked into the cavernous study where a fire crackled against the October chill. The scent of aged mahogany and Cuban tobacco offered no comfort. My heart thudded against my ribs like an iron hammer hitting an anvil.
I pulled the divorce documents from my inside pocket and tossed them straight into the roaring hearth. The twenty-seven pages curled, blackened, and vanished into gray ash within seconds. Twenty million dollars. What an insulting, pathetic joke. I had believed I was giving her freedom, unaware that she was trapped in a slow-motion execution she had willingly accepted in my place.
Ten minutes later, the soft click of the study door signaled her arrival. I didn't turn around immediately; I had to force the demonic rage from my eyes before I looked at her.
“Dante?” she said softly. Her voice carried that familiar, gentle melody that had disarmed my darkest instincts for years. “I didn't hear the garage gates open. Are you alright?”
I turned slowly. Alina stood by the threshold wearing an oversized cream-colored cardigan that swallowed her delicate frame. Her chestnut hair was pinned up loosely, several wavy strands framing a face that was far too pale. Beneath those luminous emerald eyes, faint violet shadows lingered—shadows I had foolishly blamed on late nights reading books. Now, looking at the fragile slope of her shoulders and the delicate translucence of her skin, the horrifying truth tore through my soul. She was fading right in front of me, and she was hiding every single tremor behind an affectionate smile.
“The dock business ended early,” I said, my voice deliberately smooth, though my vocal cords felt like sandpaper. “You’re still awake.”
She carried a silver tray with a porcelain cup, walking toward my desk with steady, deliberate steps that masked whatever pain she was fighting inside. “I made your chamomile. You’ve been clenching your jaw for three weeks straight, Dante. Tension ruins your sleep.”
She placed the cup before me. As she withdrew her hands, I reached out with lightning speed and caught her right wrist.
Alina gasped lightly, her body stiffening on instinct. But she didn't pull away; she never pulled away from me. Underneath my thumb, right where her pulse point fluttered, her heartbeat was erratic, skipping every fourth beat in a sickening rhythm. Her skin was unnaturally cold.
“Dante?” she murmured, looking down at our joined hands with wide, questioning eyes. “Did something go wrong tonight?”
“Look at me, Alina,” I commanded softly, easing my grip so I didn't bruise her porcelain skin, but refusing to let go.
She met my gaze. There was no terror in those green depths, only an unbearable, unconditional warmth that shattered whatever was left of my hardened composure. She truly loved me. She loved a monster whose hands were drenched in red, loved him enough to silently carry a fatal venom in her bloodstream without ever asking for a single word of praise.
“Your hands are freezing,” I said, drawing her closer until she was standing between my knees. I wrapped both of my scarred, massive palms around her small, trembling fingers. “You’ve lost weight this month.”
A flicker of panic darted across her face before she skillfully smoothed it away with a soft chuckle. “I’ve just been busy organizing the charity auction for the children’s wing at St. Jude’s. You worry too much about minor details, Dante. A mafia don shouldn't concern himself with whether his wife eats enough pasta.”
“You are not just my wife,” I said, the words slipping out with a raw intensity that made her breath hitch. “You are the only thing in this godforsaken city that belongs completely to my soul.”
Her lips parted, a deep crimson blush fighting against her pallor. She looked at me as if I had spoken in a foreign language. For three years, I had maintained an icy, professional distance, treating her with cold respect to keep myself from falling irrevocably under her spell. Breaking that wall now visibly shook her foundation.
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“Dante...” she began, her voice trembling.
Before she could retreat behind her pleasant domestic mask, her knees suddenly buckled. A sharp, agonized gasp tore from her throat, and she collapsed forward.
