Into The Rival's Arms: The Decoy's Escape

I stood behind the velvet curtain, clutching a positive pregnancy test, waiting for the perfect moment to tell Dante our family was growing.

Instead, I heard him laugh.

"She is not the bride," Dante told his Consigliere, swirling his fifty-year-old scotch. "She is the bulletproof vest I wear until it is safe for Sofia to enter the city. When the bullets stop flying, we throw the vest in the trash."

My world shattered.

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."

The cleaner was already inside the penthouse when I returned.

He was a mountain of a man, neckless and dead-eyed, standing in the center of the living room I had so carefully curated. He was currently draping heavy plastic sheets over the pristine white sofas.

I knew exactly what that meant.

Plastic sheets were not for painting. They were for blood.

"Get out," I said, though my voice lacked the authority it should have had.

He didn't even look at me. "Mr. Moretti said you are being... relocated. The new mistress is moving in tonight."

Relocated.

I walked past him, my heels clicking on the marble floor like a countdown. The stone suddenly felt like ice beneath my feet. I needed to leave, but not without insurance.

I needed the Ledger. It was hidden in the false bottom of my jewelry box.

I reached the bedroom door, but the handle refused to turn. Locked.

"Open it!" I demanded, banging my fist against the wood.

The sound of the front door opening behind me made me freeze.

I turned to see Sofia Falcone strutting in, followed closely by Dante. She was holding a flute of champagne, surveying the apartment like she was inspecting a cheap hotel room she wasn't impressed with.

"A bit tacky, isn't it?" she said, gesturing vaguely to my art on the walls. "All this sentimental garbage."

Dante closed the door behind him. The lock clicked with a finality that made my stomach drop.

"Elena," he said. His voice was calm. Transactional. "You are making a scene."

"A scene?" I laughed, the sound tearing out of my throat, hysterical and broken. "You used me as a human shield for eight years, Dante. You let me believe we were a family."

"We were never a family," he replied, adjusting his cuffs. "You were an employee. You were compensated well in clothes and food."

Sofia walked over to the mantle. She picked up a framed photo of my mother-the only photo I had of her.

"Is this the whore who birthed you?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Don't touch that," I warned, my voice trembling.

Sofia smiled cruelly and dropped the frame. The glass shattered with a sharp crunch. She stepped on the photo with her stiletto heel, grinding my mother's face into the dust.

I lunged at her.

It was instinct. Pure, blinding rage.

But before I could reach her, a hand grabbed my hair and yanked me back.

Dante shoved me.

I flew backward, my hip slamming into the sharp corner of the marble coffee table. Pain exploded in my side, radiating down my leg like fire. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air.

Dante stood over me, impassive.

"You do not touch a Made Woman, Elena," he said coldly. "That is a death sentence."

Sofia pouted, clinging to Dante's arm like a vine. "She attacked me, baby. She's dangerous. She needs to learn her place."

Dante looked down at me. There was no love in his eyes. Only annoyance.

"The Reflection Room," he ordered the cleaner.

"No," I begged, trying to crawl away, panic seizing my chest. "Not the room."

The Reflection Room was a windowless closet in the hallway. It was soundproof. It was where Dante put people when he wanted them to break.

The cleaner grabbed my arms and dragged me across the floor. I screamed, kicking and fighting, but he was too strong. He was immovable.

Dante turned his back to me, pouring Sofia another drink.

I was thrown into the darkness.

The door slammed shut.

The lock engaged.

I was alone with the silence and the throbbing pain in my hip.

I curled into a ball on the cold floor, wrapping my arms around myself to keep from falling apart.

I realized then that the plastic sheets in the living room weren't for me. Not yet.

They were keeping me alive for something worse.

I closed my eyes and prayed that Valerio Santoro was as ruthless as the stories said.

Because I didn't need a savior.

I needed a monster to kill a monster.

For two days, they left me to rot in the dark.

No food. No water. Just the sound of my own shallow breathing and the memories of Dante's betrayal playing on a sickening loop in my mind.

When the door finally opened, the light seared my retinas, blinding me.

Dante stood there, silhouetted against the harsh hallway lights. He looked impeccable in a charcoal suit, every inch the gentleman, as if he hadn't just tortured the woman he slept next to for nearly a decade.

"Stand up," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "We have a charity auction to attend."

I tried to obey, but my legs were trembling from dehydration. I stumbled forward. He didn't reach out to catch me.

"You look pathetic," he noted, scanning my disheveled form with cold indifference. "Fix your face. The press expects the happy couple."

He threw a garment bag at me. "Long sleeves. High neck. To hide the bruises."

"Why?" I rasped, my throat feeling like sandpaper. "Why keep up the act if Sofia is here?"

"Because the transition takes time, Elena. And until the ring is on Sofia's finger, you are still the target."

I was still the bait.

One hour later, I was standing in a gilded ballroom at the Plaza Hotel, smiling until my cheeks ached. Dante's hand rested on the small of my back, his grip firm, possessive. It wasn't comfort. It was a shackle.

Sofia was there, too. She was watching from a private balcony, sipping wine, waiting for her turn to descend.

The auctioneer announced the next item.

"Lot 45. A vintage silver locket, early twentieth century."

My heart stopped dead in my chest.

It was my mother's locket. The one I had pawned three years ago to pay off a gambling debt for Dante's younger brother-a debt Dante never knew about. I had been trying to buy it back for months.

"Dante," I whispered, tugging faintly on his sleeve. "Please. That represents my mother. It is the only thing I have left of her."

He looked at me, swirling his champagne, boredom etched into his features.

"You have plenty of jewelry, Elena. Don't be greedy."

The bidding started.

"Five thousand. Ten thousand."

"Please," I begged, desperation clawing at my throat. "I will never ask for anything again. Just this."

Dante sighed, as if granting a tiresome child a favor. He raised his paddle. "Fifty thousand."

Relief washed over me so violently I almost collapsed. He still cared. Somewhere, deep down, he still cared.

"Going once, going twice..."

"One hundred thousand," a voice rang out from the mezzanine.

It was Sofia.

She was smiling down at us, holding her paddle high, like a queen presiding over an execution.

Dante looked up at her. He didn't counter-bid. He lowered his paddle.

"Sold to the lady in red!"

"No," I gasped. "Dante, please. Outbid her. You have millions."

He looked at me with cold, dead eyes. "She is the future Mrs. Moretti, Elena. I do not bid against family."

I watched, paralyzed, as a staff member brought the locket up to Sofia. She took it, dangling it by its delicate chain over the edge of the balcony.

She caught my eye. She mouthed the word: "Oops."

She opened her fingers.

The locket fell two stories. It hit the marble floor of the ballroom with a sickening crack. The silver buckled. The hinge snapped.

I fell to my knees, scrambling to gather the ruined pieces. The guests gasped, whispering behind their hands.

Dante grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my bruised flesh.

"Stand up," he hissed. "You are embarrassing me."

I looked at the broken metal in my hands. It was sharp. It cut my palm.

Blood welled up, mixing with the silver dust.

I looked up at Dante. I looked at the man I had once worshipped.

And for the first time, I didn't see a Prince.

I saw a corpse.

Because the man I loved was dead. And the thing standing in front of me was just a devil in a designer suit.