Chapter 1

Dante once took three bullets for me, laying the entire New York underworld at my feet just to marry me.

I used to think Dante was the god who had pulled me from the abyss of the orphanage, until I discovered he was secretly planning a grand baptism for his illegitimate son with the princess of a rival family.

It turned out that the absolute devotion he gave me could be effortlessly replicated for another woman.

In that moment, I decided to die.

Of course, the one dying would be the Sera who had loved him.

The one surviving would stand in the shadows, watching him spiral step by step into madness and ruin within the wreckage of this so-called love.

......

"Prepare an armored SUV rigged with C4. Set the timer for three days from now. I want to utterly vanish in that explosion."

I slid an untraceable Swiss bank card across the table to the cartel's top explosives expert.

The man looked up, sheer terror in his eyes. "Ma'am, if Don Dante ever finds out I helped you do this, he'll skin me alive and make a rug out of me!"

"He won't know," I said softly, my gaze dropping to the priceless wedding band on my ring finger. "Because three days from now, he'll be busy raising a glass to his son's baptism."

Not our child's baptism, but the baptism of his illegitimate son.

The bomb maker froze.

The entire New York underworld knew that Dante loved his wife more than life itself.

Yet in our five years of marriage, I had never been able to get pregnant.

To shield me from gossip, Dante publicly declared that he was the one who didn't want children, claiming he couldn't bear the thought of me suffering through childbirth.

Everyone believed the untouchable Godfather had willingly forsaken his bloodline for his one true love.

For five years, he had built an absolute fortress of power and blood around me. In this city, anyone who showed me even a sliver of disrespect faced his reckless, ruthless retribution.

How devoted. A mocking smirk curled on my lips.

Had I not found that voice recorder in his study's safe three days ago, I probably would have taken that touching devotion straight to my grave.

Pulling my thoughts back to the present, I slipped an untraceable burner phone into the inner pocket of my coat and turned back toward the estate.

When I pushed open the master bedroom door, Dante turned.

The moment he saw me, the cold calculation in his eyes instantly melted away, replaced by the familiar, intoxicating tenderness.

He pulled me into his arms, and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.

I looked up at him.

This was the man who, just to marry me, hadn't hesitated to point his gun at the family's Commission. The man who had taken three bullets to the chest, hovering at the edge of life and death in the ICU for three days and three nights.

I used to believe that even if the whole world betrayed me, Dante never would.

"In three days, I have to go to Brooklyn to handle some crucial family business," he said softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "I'll come back early that evening to have dinner with you. I'll have the chef make your favorite Tuscan stew, alright?"

I stared at his deeply affectionate face, a violent spasm of nausea twisting my stomach.

"Okay," I heard myself reply in a terrifyingly calm voice.

He smiled, kissed the corner of my lips again, and walked out of the bedroom.

I stood there motionless until the sound of his footsteps completely faded away.

I went into the bathroom and turned the faucet on full blast. I scrubbed my forehead and lips where he had just kissed me, scrubbing until the skin broke and flushed with a burning sting.

He lied.

He wasn't going to Brooklyn to handle business. He was going to hold a baptism for his one-month-old son.

And that child's mother was Camila, the princess of our biggest rival family.

And the most pathetic part?

Everyone knew. His guards, his underboss, even the estate's butler knew exactly what was going on. They wove this flawless lie together seamlessly, watching me play the fool, drunk on the illusion of being the Don's one and only love.

A month ago, I had an unexpected miscarriage. It wasn't until blood soaked the bedsheets that I realized I was finally pregnant after five years of marriage—only to lose him the very moment I learned he existed.

Shivering violently from the pain, I called Dante's number over and over, only to be met with his mechanical voicemail.

Despair and a suffocating bitterness churned in my chest. I curled up on the bed, shaking uncontrollably, watching helplessly as the blood slowly seeped into the sheets.

Hours later, when Dante finally rushed into the hospital, his eyes were bloodshot.

He knelt by my bed, gripped my hand tightly, and mercilessly slapped his own face until his cheeks bruised. He swore to me that a sudden shootout had cut off all cellular signals.

I believed him. Heartbroken for him, I held him tight, sobbing as I traced the handprints on his face and told him I didn't blame him.

Until three days ago, when I pressed play on that voice recorder.

The audio was crystal clear.

Camila's voice came first—haughty, laced with a spoiled entitlement. "Dante, our son is about to turn one month old. When are you going to show your cards to that little orphan? Need I remind you that I brought the entire East Coast shipping routes to you as a dowry?"

Then came Dante's voice, so cold I could barely recognize it: "Don't push your luck, Camila. Sera is an orphan. She's too fragile to handle this kind of cruelty. I need to protect her. But you are different; you are the mother of my heir. I promise you and the boy will get the title and respect you deserve—but on the condition that you never provoke Sera."

In that moment, I felt like all the blood had been drained from my body.

To him, his infidelity was perhaps nothing more than a minor, manageable flaw in his grand blueprint.

He was even arrogant enough to believe he could cage me with extreme devotion while simultaneously cementing his empire with a political marriage and an illegitimate son.

He thought he could control everything.

I looked at my pale reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Dante, you kept saying you wanted to protect me from cruelty.

But to me, the cruelest thing in this whole world is you.

Now, it's time to put an end to this lie.

Three days from now, the exact moment you celebrate your son's baptism will be the opening act of my funeral.