I watched him through the reinforced glass of the balcony door.

He was laughing.

The sight was jarring. Dante de Rossi didn't laugh. He smirked. He scoffed. He gave dry, mirthless chuckles of disbelief when someone begged for mercy. But he didn't laugh.

Yet there he was, outside in the sun. He was laughing with her.

I looked down at the dossier resting on the marble island. The medical records were thorough. Isobel was sick, yes. But she wasn't bedridden. She was well enough to travel. Well enough to post photos of her latte art on Instagram. And certainly well enough to steal my life.

My phone buzzed against the countertop, startling me.

It was Julia Carter.

Julia was the only person in my life who didn't know what a "made man" was. She was a doctor I'd met during a seminar I wasn't supposed to attend. She represented the world of light-a world where doctors saved lives instead of patching up torture victims in damp basements.

"Hey, Nina," she said. Her voice was bright, chirpy. It sounded like sunshine.

"Hi, Julia."

"Look, I know you turned down the fellowship in Lalan six months ago because of the... family obligations," she began, treading carefully. "But Professor Moore asked about you. The position is still open. It's a three-year contract. High security. Closed campus."

She hesitated, waiting for me to cut her off.

"I know you're getting married in a month," she added quickly. "I know the timing is awful. But this is groundbreaking work, Nina."

I looked at the calendar hanging on the fridge. The date of the wedding was circled in red ink. It was supposed to be the day I became the Queen of Chicago.

Now, it just looked like a target.

"I don't need time for the wedding," I said, my voice steady.

Julia paused. "Oh? Is everything okay?"

I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles turning white. "The wedding isn't happening."

"Oh my god, Nina. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," I said. "When does the orientation start?"

"Two days after your... well, two days after that date."

"I can make it," I said.

"Are you sure?" Julia asked, her professional concern bleeding through. "It's a long flight. You'll be completely cut off. The confidentiality agreements are strict. No contact with the outside world for the first six months."

"That sounds perfect," I whispered.

"I want the full schedule, Julia. Nights, weekends, holidays. Bury me in work."

"Consider it done," she said.

I hung up just as the balcony door slid open.

Dante walked back inside. He looked annoyed that he had to return to me, as if coming home to his fiancée was a chore.

"She's dramatic," he said, waving his hand as if dismissing a fly. "She wants me to come to the ultrasound next week."

"You should go," I said.

He stopped mid-stride. He looked at me, searching for the sarcasm, waiting for the jealousy. He didn't find any. I was too tired for sarcasm.

"You're being reasonable," he said, suspicion clouding his eyes for a fleeting second before arrogance took over. "That's good. I expected a fight."

"I'm not fighting, Dante."

He nodded, satisfied. He wore the look of a man who believed he had won. He thought he had broken me into submission.

He walked past me to the shower. He didn't kiss my cheek. He didn't ask how my day was.

Once the water started running, I walked over to the calendar.

I picked up the red marker.

I didn't cross the date out. I just stared at it.

It wasn't a wedding date anymore.

It was an extraction date.

I had become a ghost in my own home.

Dante was rarely there. He claimed he was handling "territory disputes" in the South Side, a vague enough excuse to satisfy the soldiers, but not me. I knew exactly where he was.

I broke the first rule of sanity: I looked.

I created a burner account on Instagram with trembling fingers. I searched for Isobel de Luca. Her profile was public. Of course it was. She wanted to be seen. She wanted to be known.

There was a photo from last night.

It was a dinner table set for a family. The De Luca matriarch was there, looking regal and approving. And next to her, cutting a piece of steak, was Dante.

He looked relaxed. His jacket was off, draped carelessly over the chair. He was smiling at something Isobel was saying. His hand was resting on the back of her chair.

It wasn't just a casual placement. It was a possessive gesture. A protective gesture.

He looked like he belonged there.

I scrolled down. Another photo. Dante's hand resting on her barely-there bump. The caption read: Protecting the future.

I felt bile rise in my throat, sour and hot.

He had never touched me like that. With me, his touch was heavy. It was a claim of ownership, a reminder of duty and contracts. With her, it looked... soft.

He was capable of warmth. Just not with me.

I put the phone down before I could throw it. I went to the bar in the living room and poured myself a glass of vodka. I didn't even like vodka. It tasted like antiseptic cleaning fluid. But I needed to burn the image out of my head.

I drank it in one swallow. Then another.

My phone pinged. It was the group chat with my civilian friends. The ones who thought Dante was a "logistics consultant" with a busy travel schedule.

Bridesmaid fitting next week! So excited!

I typed quickly, my vision blurring.

Wedding is off. Don't ask. Please respect my privacy.

I blocked the notifications before the explosion of questions could hit me. I couldn't handle their happiness. I couldn't handle their normalcy.

The front door opened.

It was 2:00 AM.

Dante walked in. He stopped dead when he saw me sitting on the sofa in the dark.

He sniffed the air. His nose wrinkled in immediate distaste.

"You've been drinking," he said. It wasn't an observation. It was an accusation.

"I had two glasses," I said, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears.

"You smell like a distillery," he snapped. He took a step back, as if my scent was contagious. As if I was dirty.

"Isobel can't be around strong smells," he said, his tone clinical. "It triggers her nausea."

I laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound that scraped against my throat.

"Isobel isn't here, Dante."

"I'm seeing her in the morning," he said, brushing past me. "I can't smell like cheap vodka. It's disrespectful to the mother of my heir."

Disrespectful.

He was worried about offending her nose while he shattered my life.

"Go shower," he ordered. "You're embarrassing yourself."

I stood up. The room spun slightly, but I steadied myself against the arm of the sofa.

"I'm not the one who should be embarrassed," I said.

He narrowed his eyes, his patience evaporating. "We need to have a Sit Down, Nina. We need to discuss the logistics of the christening."

The christening. The baby wasn't even born yet.

"There's nothing to discuss," I said.

I walked past him. I went into the guest bathroom and locked the door. I turned the shower on as hot as it would go.

I scrubbed my skin until it was red. I wanted to wash off the vodka. I wanted to wash off the last twenty years.

I wanted to wash off him.

The next morning, the apartment was silent.

Dante stood in the kitchen, nursing an espresso while scrolling through a file on his tablet.

"Cancel the photoshoot," he said, not bothering to look up.

I paused with my hand on the refrigerator door.

The engagement photoshoot. It was scheduled for tomorrow at the Botanical Gardens.

"Okay," I said simply.

He looked up then, blinking. He had been expecting tears. He had been expecting me to beg for the one public display of affection he had actually promised me.

"Just like that?" he asked.

"You want to cancel it. So we cancel it."

He shifted in his seat, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

"Isobel wants to do a shoot," he said.

I stared at him.

"She wants... a wedding shoot?"

"She's dying, Nina. She'll never get married. She wants the experience. She wants photos of her and... the father. To leave for the child."

He wanted to take my photographer, my date, and my fiancé, and gift wrap them for her.

"It's just pretend," he added quickly. "For the kid."

"Sure," I said. "It makes sense."

Dante frowned. "You're taking this well."

"I'm just being a good mob wife, Dante. Putting the Family first."

He studied me for a second, searching for a crack in the armor. But I was hollow inside. There was nothing left to break.

"Good," he said. "I'm taking her to North Shore Island after the shoot. For a few days. The sea air is good for the baby."

North Shore. That was where we were supposed to go for our honeymoon.

"You handle the wedding logistics while I'm gone," he said. "The flowers, the seating charts. I trust your judgment."

He stood, grabbed his keys, and walked to the door.

"I'll see you in a week."

He didn't say goodbye.

The door clicked shut.

I waited exactly one minute. Then, I walked to the closet.

I pulled out a heavy-duty trash bag.

I started in the bedroom. I swept every photo of us off the nightstand. I took the clothes he had bought me. I took the books he had never read.

I moved to the bathroom. I threw away his spare toothbrush. His razor. The cologne I had bought him for Christmas.

I went to the living room and took down the art we had picked out together.

I stripped the apartment bare.

By noon, the walls were naked. The shelves were empty.

It looked like a hotel room. Sterile. Cold. Impersonal.

It looked exactly like our relationship.

I sat on the floor in the center of the void I had created. I looked at the calendar.

12 days.

I wasn't planning a wedding anymore. I was planning a funeral for the girl I used to be.