He Betrayed Me, Now He Begs

For seven years, I built a criminal empire for my fiancé, Dante Gallo.

Tomorrow, I was supposed to marry him.

But the night before the wedding, I received a text. The photo showed Dante wearing a wedding band. The message read: "Getting married tomorrow morning. She's safe now."

My eyes dropped to the engagement ring on my own finger. It was an exact replica of the one in the photo. The engraving "DI" didn't stand for Dante and I, but for Dante and his childhood sweetheart, Isabella.

I realized that he had betrayed me, and that I was nothing more than a shield he used to protect his true love.

Isabella sent me their sweet-looking bed photos, expecting me to break down.

They were about to find out just how dead wrong they were.

I forwarded their bed photos to Isabella's fiancé, a man far more dangerous than Dante.

"Your fiancée is tangled up with a man in a hotel suite," I told him. "I have a plan."

Chapter 1

Serafina's POV:

The phone in my hand felt colder than the engagement ring on my finger. It harbored an infuriating truth: my seven-year love story was a lie, and the man I was supposed to marry tomorrow already belonged to someone else.

For seven years, I had been the shadow behind Dante Gallo's throne.

He wasn't just the godfather of the Gallo family; he was more like a phantom haunting the city's underworld, a figure whose name was synonymous with both violence and absolute power.

His empire was built on blood and laundered through the legitimate front of Gallo Imports-an achievement that belonged just as much to me as it did to him.

I was the mastermind behind his legitimate success, the strategist behind his every move, and the unofficial consigliere who knew his inner workings better than he knew himself.

We were inseparable in everything but name.

Last month, he finally proposed.

The proposal was abrupt, feeling less like a romantic gesture and more like an afterthought, with the ceremony set for the Feast of the Assumption. I foolishly mistook it for a promise of our future. What a fool I had been.

That encrypted message was never meant for me.

Yet there it sat in my inbox, a digital bomb that obliterated the life I had so carefully constructed.

"Getting married tomorrow morning. She's safe now."

Attached was a photo. It showed a man's hand, unmistakably Dante's. I recognized the ring. Engraved on the inside were the letters: DI

My gaze fell to my own hand, to the engagement ring he had slipped onto my finger. It was exactly the same as the one in the photo, just a smaller size. The same platinum, the same diamonds, the same engraving.

DI

Not Dante and I.

Dante and Isabella.

Isabella Falcone. His childhood sweetheart.

The truth hit me like a bolt of lightning, knocking the wind right out of me.

He didn't propose to me out of love. He proposed because Isabella was about to marry into another family. And marrying me was nothing more than a twisted way to fulfill his vow to her.

My future was just a convenient cover-up for his pathetic obsession.

I couldn't help but laugh out loud.

The door opened, and Dante walked in, shrugging off his coat. He saw me standing in the dark, my face illuminated only by the glow of my phone screen.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I looked up, meeting his eyes. The loving gaze I had seen this morning was gone, replaced by a chillingly sobering clarity. "We're done."

He scoffed, as if dismissing a petty tantrum. "Don't be dramatic, Sera." He walked toward me and reached for my phone. "What is it?"

I dodged his grasp with a fluid, precise movement. I held up the phone, shoving the screenshot right in his face.

His arrogant expression froze instantly. As he recognized the message and the ring, the color drained from his face. Then, just as quickly, his mask of cold indifference slipped back into place. "It's nothing."

"I'm not marrying you," I said, my tone flat, betraying none of the agonizing turmoil churning inside me. "We're done."

He clenched his jaw, his coldness melting into a dark, brooding anger.

He finally realized this wasn't a game.

We stared at each other, the seven years we shared stretching between us like an uncrossable chasm.

"Suit yourself," he growled, turning on his heel. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing the finality of my decision. That was it.

I stood there, enveloped by a heavy silence, unable to settle my racing thoughts for a long time. Then, with steady steps, I walked into the kitchen. I pulled out the steaks and vegetables I had prepped for our anniversary dinner.

The steak hit the hot skillet with a loud sizzle, the rich aroma filling the air. I wasn't going to cry. I wasn't going to break.

Tonight, I was going to enjoy a great meal to celebrate my freedom.