Dante always believed Vivian was his safest possession.
Quiet. Obedient. Never asked where he went at night. Never called out the lies laced with strange perfume. On their third anniversary, she finally heard him say it out loud: a wife is the dignity you keep at home—a mistress is the reason you feel alive.
So she decided to bury the woman she used to be.
A silver gun engraved with his name. A cliff stained red. Enough to make all of New York believe the Godmother was dead. But what really died wasn't her life. It was the woman who once loved Dante without conditions.
He could find her body. But he would never find the wife who would turn back for him.
