When Sofia arrived that night, she didn't just take my place; she boiled my beloved cat for dinner. Dante didn't defend me. He told me to clean up the mess or face punishment.
To prove his devotion to her, he had his men drag me to "The Pit"-an underground fight club.
I was thrown into a cage with a starving Doberman.
I looked up at the VIP box, begging the man I loved to save me. Instead, Dante pressed the intercom button, his voice booming over the speakers.
"One million dollars on the dog," he said. "She won't last three minutes."
He covered Sofia's eyes to protect her innocence while the beast tore the flesh from my arm.
That night, Elena Vance died in the dirt.
One year later, the grieving Dante Moretti attended a gala for a mysterious new artist in New York.
He dropped his champagne glass when he saw me on stage, alive, wearing a dress that revealed my ruined, scarred arm.
"I didn't leave you, Dante," I said into the microphone, my voice cold as ice.
"You killed me. And now, I'm here to collect my winnings."
Chapter 1
I stood behind the heavy velvet curtain, clutching the positive pregnancy test in my sweaty palm.
I was waiting for the perfect moment to step out and tell Dante that his legacy was finally secure.
That was when I heard him tell his Consigliere that I was nothing more than livestock waiting for the slaughter.
"She is not the bride, Lorenzo," Dante said. His voice was smooth, rich and biting like the fifty-year-old scotch swirling in his glass. "She is the bulletproof vest I wear until it is safe for Sofia to enter the city. When the bullets stop flying, we take off the vest and throw it in the trash."
My breath hitched in my throat, strangling a sob before it could escape.
The air in the private VIP booth of the Moretti club suddenly choked me with the scent of expensive cigars and betrayal.
For eight years, I thought I was the Cinderella story of New York. Dante Moretti, the Underboss of the most ruthless crime family on the East Coast, had plucked me from a rat-infested orphanage and draped me in diamonds.
He told me I was his light. He told me I was the only thing that kept the darkness of his world at bay.
I had been a fool.
I was not his light. I was his decoy.
Every public appearance, every paparazzi photo, every charity gala where he held my waist-it was all a calculated move to draw fire away from the woman he actually intended to marry.
I looked down at my stomach. A wave of nausea hit me, but it had nothing to do with the morning sickness and everything to do with the rot spreading in my chest.
Lorenzo chuckled, the sound grating against my ears like sandpaper.
"The Falcone family is getting impatient, Dante. Sofia arrives tonight. What do we do with the girl?"
Dante sighed, the sound of a man bored with a toy he had outgrown.
"Let Sofia have her fun," he said dismissively. "Elena has served her purpose. If she survives Sofia, we pay her off. If she does not, well, the East River is deep."
My hand crushed the plastic stick in my pocket until the sharp edge bit into my skin, drawing blood.
He did not just break my heart. He had reached inside, unzipped my chest, and reorganized the very anatomy of my pain.
I stepped back, the velvet curtain swaying. I had to get out. I had to run.
But before I could turn, the heavy oak door to the booth swung open.
A woman walked in. She looked like a nightmare dressed in red silk. Her hair was the same shade of dark brown as mine, her height the same, her build the same.
It was like looking into a mirror, only to find the reflection twisted by malice.
Sofia Falcone. The Mafia Princess.
She didn't look at Dante. She looked straight at the curtain where I was hiding.
"Come out, little mouse," she purred. "I can smell your cheap perfume from the hallway."
Dante did not move to stop her. He sat on the leather couch, his face a mask of cold indifference. The man who had whispered promises of forever against my skin last night was gone.
In his place sat the Prince of New York, a monster who had finally taken off his human mask.
I stepped out. My legs felt like they were made of lead.
"Dante," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Please."
He took a slow sip of his drink.
"Meet Sofia, Elena," he said flatly. "My fiancée."
Sofia walked up to me. She circled me like a shark smelling blood in the water. She reached out and fingered the pearl necklace around my throat-the one Dante gave me for our fifth anniversary.
"Trash wearing treasure," Sofia said.
She yanked the necklace.
The string snapped. Pearls scattered across the hardwood floor, clicking like hail on a tin roof.
Dante did not flinch.
"You are in my spot," Sofia whispered, leaning close enough that I could smell the metallic tang of blood on her breath. "And you are wearing my face."
I looked at Dante one last time. I wanted him to defend me. I wanted him to be the man who saved me from the streets.
But he just checked his watch.
"Don't make a mess on the rug, Sofia," he said. "It is Persian."
That was the moment Elena Vance died.
I turned and ran. I pushed past the guards, past the confused waitstaff, and burst out into the cold New York night.
The city was loud, but the screaming in my head was louder.
I fumbled for the burner phone I had hidden in my purse-a safety measure my instincts had screamed at me to keep, even when my heart denied it.
My shaking fingers dialed the number I had memorized from a stolen file on Dante's desk months ago.
It rang once.
Twice.
"Valerio Santoro," a deep voice answered. It was dark, rough, and sounded like death itself.
The Reaper of Chicago. Dante's sworn enemy.
"I have the Ledger," I gasped, tears streaming down my face. "The Blue Ledger. I can give you the Moretti empire."
There was a silence on the other end. A heavy, dangerous silence.
"And the price?" Valerio asked.
I looked back at the club, where the man I loved was toasting to my destruction.
"Kill me," I said. "I want Elena Vance to die before sunrise."
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