He Saved His Mistress, Not His Wife

I was trapped under a massive oak bookcase, my leg shattered, dust filling my lungs.

My husband, Dante, the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit, finally found me. But just as he lifted the heavy beam to free me, his earpiece crackled.

It was news about Sofia, his childhood friend and the woman he truly loved.

"She scratched her arm on the car door, Boss. She's hyperventilating. She won't board the jet without you."

Dante froze. He looked at me, bleeding on the floor, secretly ten weeks pregnant with his child. Then he looked at the door.

"It's just a broken leg, Elena," he said coldly, slowly lowering the crushing weight back onto me.

"You are a doctor. You know it's not fatal. Sofia needs me."

He ran to comfort a woman with a papercut, leaving his wife and unborn child to be buried alive in the rubble.

I miscarried alone in the dark, tracing the number of a divorce lawyer on the floorboards in my own blood.

Three days later, while he was peeling grapes for Sofia in a VIP hospital suite, I packed my medical degree and a single gym bag.

I didn't go to a hotel. I boarded a military cargo plane to a war zone in South Sudan.

By the time the Ice Prince realized his castle was empty, I was already thousands of miles away, and I wasn't coming back.

Chapter 1

I stood in silence and watched my husband, the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit, sign the document that effectively condemned my brother to rot in a cartel basement.

Without missing a beat, he turned to me and asked if I was wearing the red lipstick he liked.

Five years.

That is how long I have been Elena Cavallaro.

Before that, I was Dr. Elena Vitiello, a trauma surgeon with steady hands and a heart that beat for saving lives.

Now, I am an ornament.

A peace offering traded by a failing family to the Cavallaros to settle a gambling debt that wasn't mine.

Dante Cavallaro stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his high-rise office.

He is a man carved from marble and nightmares.

They call him the Ice Prince.

He wears bespoke three-piece suits that cost more than my medical school tuition, and he kills with the same detachment he uses to check his stock portfolio.

"Dante," I said.

My voice was steady, though my hands were trembling behind the silk of my evening gown.

"Luca is in the neutral zone. The intel says the cartel has him. You have soldiers stationed three miles away."

Dante didn't turn around.

He was fastidiously adjusting his cufflinks.

"The Summit is tonight, Elena. We have a truce with the cartel. If I send men into the zone, the truce breaks. War restarts."

"He is my brother," I whispered, the plea catching in my throat.

"He is a low-level associate who went where he wasn't supposed to go," Dante said, his voice void of emotion.

He finally turned to look at me.

His eyes were like the barrel of a gun.

Cold.

Empty.

"The Code comes first. The Family comes first. You know this."

"I am your family," I said.

"You are my wife," he corrected sharply. "There is a difference."

He walked over to me.

He didn't touch me.

He inspected me.

"That dress," he said, gesturing to the emerald silk that hugged my curves. "It's too low cut. It distracts from the message of austerity we are trying to project tonight. Go change."

I felt the air leave my lungs.

"My brother is going to die tonight."

"Luca knew the risks of the life," Dante said, checking his watch with practiced indifference. "The car is waiting. Do not make me wait, Elena. Punctuality is a virtue."

He walked out.

I stood there, frozen.

I am a surgeon.

I know how to stop bleeding.

But I didn't know how to stop the hemorrhage of my own dignity.

I pawned my mother's jade bracelet an hour later.

I hired private mercenaries.

They were too slow.

By the time they crossed the border, Luca was dead.

Infection.

Torture.

He died alone in the dirt while I was smiling at a gala, clutching a glass of champagne that tasted like bile.

I found out via a text message from the mercenary captain.

Target deceased. Returning deposit.

I was standing next to Dante in the VIP circle when I read it.

I let out a sound.

A small, broken noise that escaped my throat before I could stop it.

Dante looked at me, annoyed.

"Control yourself," he murmured, his jaw tight. "The Commission is watching."

Then his phone buzzed.

His face, usually a mask of stone, shattered.

Panic.

Raw, terrified panic.

I had never seen that expression on him.

"What is it?" I asked, thinking maybe we were under attack.

"It's Sofia," he said. His voice cracked.

"She fainted while reporting on the famine in St. Louis. She's in the hospital."

Sofia Ricci.

The ward.

The daughter of the man who died saving Dante's father.

The woman who plays the fragility card like a poker pro.

"She fainted?" I asked, incredulous. "Luca is dead, Dante. My brother is dead."

He didn't hear me.

He was already shouting orders into his headset.

"Scramble the jet. Get Dr. Rossi on the line. I'm coming personally."

He left me.

He left the Gala.

He left the Peace Summit he sacrificed my brother to protect.

I watched him run.

I watched the Ice Prince melt for a woman who wasn't his wife.

I drove to the private airstrip.

I stood on the tarmac, the wind whipping my hair across my face like a lash.

I watched Dante carry Sofia off the jet.

She looked fine.

She was clinging to his neck, burying her face in the lapel of his expensive suit.

"I was so scared, Dante," she whimpered.

"I've got you," he said, his voice tender. "I've got you, piccola. I'm taking you to the safe house. You need rest."

He walked past me.

He didn't even see me.

I was invisible.

I was a ghost in my own marriage.

I looked down at the tracking number on the divorce papers I had hidden in my glove box for six months.

I took my phone out.

I dialed the number for Doctors Without Borders.

"This is Dr. Vitiello," I said, using my maiden name for the first time in five years. "I'm available for deployment."

Dante found me in the study the next morning.

I was seated in the massive leather armchair that used to swallow me whole, making me feel insignificant.

Today, it was just a chair. Just furniture.

"I heard about Luca," he said.

He didn't sit. He loomed by the door, maintaining a clinical distance.

"It is unfortunate. But it is a lesson in the lifestyle. He was careless."

"Unfortunate," I repeated.

The word tasted like ash on my tongue.

"You scrambled a jet for Sofia because she skipped breakfast," I said, my voice steady. "Yet you let my brother be tortured to death because of a treaty you broke anyway by leaving the Gala."

Dante sighed, a heavy exhale of a parent dealing with a petulant child.

"Sofia is a Legacy Protectee. Her father's blood bought my life. It is a matter of Honor, Elena. You wouldn't understand."

"Honor," I echoed.

I stood up.

I walked to the mahogany desk and retrieved a file.

"This is Luca's transfer request," I said, tossing it down. "He wanted out. He wanted to go to culinary school. You denied it. You claimed the Family needs soldiers."

"We do," Dante replied, unmoved.

"You have enough soldiers," I said. "You just didn't care enough to save the one that belonged to me."

He looked at me then.

Really looked at me.

Usually, when we argue, I cry. I beg. I ask him to see me.

Today, my eyes were dry as a desert.

"You are being emotional," he dismissed. "I expected better composure from a Vitiello."

"I am not a Vitiello," I stated coldly. "And I am certainly not a Cavallaro."

I brushed past him.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"To take a shower. The scent of your hypocrisy is clinging to me."

I washed the smell of the gala-and him-off my skin.

I scrubbed until my flesh was raw and red.

When I finally descended the stairs, the rich aroma of garlic and tomatoes permeated the house.

Provencal stew.

Dante sat at the head of the table.

Sofia was sitting in my seat.

She was wearing a cashmere sweater that looked suspiciously like the one Dante had 'lost' last year.

"Elena!" she chirped, her voice gratingly bright. "You look terrible. So pale. I made dinner. Dante said you were upset, so I thought I'd help."

She ladled a generous portion of stew into a bowl.

"Eat," she urged. "It's a comfort recipe."

I stared at the bowl.

Green specks floated innocently in the red broth.

Parsley.

I have a severe parsley allergy.

It causes anaphylaxis.

It is noted in my medical file. It is bolded on the emergency contact list magneted to our fridge.

Dante knows this.

Or at least, I told him.

Five years ago. Four years ago. Last month.

"I can't eat this," I said.

"Oh, don't be rude," Sofia countered, her eyes filling with instant, practiced tears. "I spent hours on it. My wrist is still sore from the IV."

Dante looked up from his phone, annoyed.

"Elena," he warned. "Eat a little. Out of respect. Sofia is a guest."

"It has parsley," I said.

"It's just a garnish," Dante snapped. "Stop being difficult. You are embarrassing yourself."

He didn't remember.

He actually didn't remember.

He knew Sofia's favorite flower, her specific coffee order, and the exact date her father died.

But he couldn't remember that his wife could die from a garnish.

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a loud snap.

It was the sound of a tether breaking in the silence of deep space.

I reached out and shoved the tureen.

The heavy ceramic bowl tipped.

Hot, red stew splashed across the table.

It hit Sofia's hand.

She screamed.

It was a minor splash, but she screamed like she had been shot.

Dante was on his feet in a heartbeat.

"What is wrong with you?" he roared.

He grabbed a napkin and dabbed frantically at Sofia's hand, checking for burns that weren't there.

"She burned me!" Sofia cried, burying her face in his chest. "She did it on purpose!"

Dante turned to me.

His face was twisted with a rage I had never seen directed at his enemies.

"Apologize," he commanded. "Now."

I looked at him.

I looked at the man I had loved since I was twenty-two.

"No," I said.

"Elena," his voice dropped a dangerous octave. "Apologize to Sofia."

"I hope it scars," I said.

I turned on my heel and walked out of the dining room.

I heard Dante comforting her behind me.

"It's okay, *piccola*. She's hysterical. Ignore her."

I went to the guest room.

I locked the door.

I didn't cry.

I just stared at the wall and waited for the end.

The storm slammed into Chicago at midnight, the wind howling against the floor-to-ceiling glass like a dying animal clawing to get in.

I was lying in the guest bed, my eyes fixed on the shadows dancing across the ceiling.

Suddenly, the door handle turned.

It was locked, but that didn't matter; Dante had the key.

When he entered, the scent of rain and expensive scotch flooded the room, choking the air.

"You are sleeping in here?" he asked, his voice low.

"Yes," I said.

He moved to the edge of the bed and sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight.

He placed a heavy hand on my hip.

His touch used to set me on fire. Now, it felt like a brand searing into my flesh.

"You were out of line today," he murmured, his thumb tracing a possessive line along my side. "But I forgive you. I know you are grieving."

"Forgive me?" A laugh clawed its way out of my throat-a dry, rusty sound.

"Come back to our room," he said. "I don't like sleeping alone."

He leaned down, nuzzling the sensitive curve of my neck.

The rough grit of his beard scratched my skin.

I went rigid.

I felt like a corpse he was trying to resuscitate.

"Dante, stop," I said.

"You're my wife," he murmured against my skin. "It's been weeks."

He pinned my wrists to the sheets.

Not violently.

Just firmly.

Possessively.

Then, the siren wailed.

The Red Alert.

It cut through the house, shattering the tension and silencing the storm outside.

Dante froze.

He released me instantly, his demeanor shifting in a heartbeat.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. "Transport plane down," he said, scanning the screen. "North Africa. It's carrying the new shipment."

He stood up, buttoning his shirt with practiced efficiency.

The transition from husband to Don was instant.

"I have to go to the Command Center."

Sofia appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a sheer silk robe.

"Dante," she breathed, feigning breathlessness. "I heard the siren. Is it the shipment? My cousin is a pilot on that route."

"I'm going to check," Dante said.

"I'm coming with you," Sofia said, stepping forward. "I can cover the story. Exclusive access."

"It's dangerous," Dante said.

"I'm not afraid," she said, lifting her chin defiantly.

"Fine," Dante said. "Get dressed. Five minutes."

He looked at me one last time.

"Secure the windows, Elena. The storm is getting worse. The shutters in the east wing are loose."

"I asked you to fix those shutters three months ago," I said, my voice hollow.

"Priorities," he said dismissively.

He left.

He took Sofia.

He left me in a house that was falling apart.

I went to the east wing, where the gale was already battering the glass.

I tried to pull the heavy steel shutter closed, but the latch was fused with rust.

"Low Priority," I whispered to myself.

Outside, the wind gusted to seventy miles per hour.

With a deafening crack, the window blew in.

Glass exploded inward like shrapnel, peppering the room.

The pressure change sucked the air right out of my lungs.

Behind me, the heavy oak bookcase groaned ominously.

I turned.

It tipped.

It fell in slow motion, a towering shadow descending upon me.

I tried to run.

But I wasn't fast enough.

The weight hit me.

*CRACK.*

My right leg.

I felt the bone snap like a dry twig.

I screamed.

The bookcase pinned me to the floor, crushing me under its immense weight.

Dust and debris filled my mouth, choking my cries.

Above me, the satellite tower on the roof crashed through the ceiling.

Rubble rained down, burying me alive.

Pain.

White-hot, blinding pain radiated from my leg.

And then, a different pain.

A sharp, cramping agony in my lower abdomen.

"No," I whispered, tears mixing with the dust on my face. "No, please."

My hand trembled as it went to my stomach.

I was ten weeks pregnant.

I hadn't told him.

I wanted to surprise him for his birthday.

I reached for my phone, but the screen was shattered, the device dead.

Then, I saw a light.

Dante.

He had come back.

He stood in the doorway, his flashlight beam cutting through the swirling dust.

"Elena!" he shouted.

He ran to me.

He started lifting the heavy wood, his muscles straining.

"Hold on," he grunted. "I've got you."

The pressure eased slightly.

I gasped for air.

"Dante," I choked out. "The baby... I..."

Suddenly, his earpiece crackled.

"Boss! We have a situation. Sofia panicked on the tarmac. She scratched her arm on the door handle. She's fainting at the sight of blood. We need you to stabilize the asset before we launch."

Dante froze.

He looked at me.

Trapped under the wood.

Bleeding.

"She scratched her arm?" he asked the earpiece, disbelief warring with calculation.

"She's hyperventilating, Boss. She won't board without you."

Dante looked down at my leg.

"It's just a broken leg," he muttered, his face hardening. "You're a doctor. You know it's not fatal."

"Dante," I whispered, reaching out. "Don't go."

"I have to secure the mission," he said, his voice cold. "Sofia is key to the media narrative. I'll send the guards back for you."

He let go of the bookcase.

The weight slammed back down on me with crushing force.

I screamed.

He flinched, but he turned around.

He ran.

He ran to the girl with the scratch.

He left his wife and his unborn child under the rubble.

I watched his flashlight fade away into the darkness.

I was alone.

Then, I felt warm liquid pooling between my legs.

It wasn't urine.

It was blood.

I dipped my finger in it.

With trembling hands, I pressed my bloody finger against the floorboards.

I traced the numbers of the divorce lawyer I had memorized.

Then, the darkness took me.