Nina Ford POV

I pressed the pen into the paper, signing my name on the resignation letter. The ink looked stark and final against the crisp white bond.

It was the last signature of Nina Ford, the Mob Doctor.

St. Jude's wasn't really a hospital. It was a laundry service for the Outfit's dirty work, disguised as a premier trauma center. I had spent five years here stitching up knife wounds and charting them as clumsy kitchen accidents.

I handed the file to the administrator. He blinked, looking visibly unsettled.

"Mrs. Rossi," he said, his voice dropping to a nervous whisper. "Does the Don know about this?"

"I'm not Mrs. Rossi," I said sharply. "And he will find out soon enough."

I walked out of the sliding glass doors. The air in Chicago felt heavy, like it was pressing down on my lungs with the weight of the coming storm. Five days left.

When I got back to the apartment, the silence I had carefully cultivated was gone.

Luggage barricaded the hallway. Designer bags with gold hardware gleaming under the lights.

Isobel was here.

I walked into the living room. Dante was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. Isobel was leaning over his shoulder, pointing at something on the screen.

She looked healthy. Glowing, even. The sea air had treated her well.

"You're back," I said.

Dante looked up. He frowned at the empty shelves behind me.

"Where are the vases?" he asked. "And the books?"

"I'm decluttering," I said, my voice flat. "The cleaner is coming tomorrow for a deep scrub."

He accepted the lie not because it was convincing, but because he didn't care enough to challenge it. He turned back to Isobel.

Isobel smiled at me. It was a sharp, predatory smile wrapped in false sweetness.

"We had such a wonderful time, Nina. Dante was amazing with the itinerary. We even found this little bistro that served the most incredible pasta."

"That sounds nice," I said.

"We're going to dinner tonight," Dante said. He stood up, adjusting his cuffs. "To celebrate the successful trip. You're coming."

"I'm tired, Dante."

"It wasn't a request, Nina."

His voice dropped an octave. It was the voice he used when he gave orders to his soldiers-cold, absolute, and violent.

Isobel pouted. "Oh, come on, Nina. Don't be jealous. It's just dinner. Unless you're upset about... the situation?"

She placed a hand on her flat stomach.

Dante's eyes hardened. "Don't be rude to her, Nina. She is carrying my legacy. Get changed."

I went to the bedroom. I put on a black dress. It felt appropriate. I was mourning, after all.

The restaurant was one of those places where the lighting was too dim and the menus didn't have prices. Dante sat at the head of the table. Isobel sat to his right. I sat to his left.

The waiter approached.

Dante didn't even open the menu.

"For the lady on my right, the grilled salmon. No heavy sauces, nothing acidic. She has acid reflux. And sparkling water, room temperature."

He looked at me, his gaze passing over me as if I were furniture.

"And for her, the Seafood Risotto. It's the special. She loves rice."

The waiter nodded and left.

I sat very still. My hands were folded in my lap, knuckles white.

Dante turned to Isobel, continuing a story about the island.

"Dante," I said softly.

He didn't hear me. He was laughing at something Isobel said.

"Dante."

He looked at me, annoyed. "What?"

"I can't eat the risotto."

"Why not? You're always complaining about being hungry."

"It has shrimp stock," I said. "I'm allergic to shellfish."

The table went quiet.

Isobel covered her mouth, her eyes wide with fake sympathy. "Oh my god. You didn't know?"

Dante looked at me. Then he looked at the empty space where the waiter had been. His brow furrowed.

"Since when?" he asked.

"Since I was six," I said. "My throat closes up. I carry an EpiPen in my purse. You watched me use it once at the gala three years ago."

He blinked. I could see the memory trying to surface, but it was buried under layers of indifference.

He knew Isobel's acid reflux triggers. He knew her ovulation cycle. He knew her favorite flower.

But he didn't know his fiancée could die from a bowl of rice.

"I... I forgot," he muttered. He looked down at his napkin.

"It's fine," I said. "I'm not hungry anyway."

I pushed my chair back.

My phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out.

It was Julia.

I answered it right there at the table.

"Hello?"

"Nina," Julia said. Her voice was serious. "Final confirmation. The extraction team is set for the 20th. That's four days from now. You need to be at the airport by 6 AM. Once you enter the program, you disappear. No contacts. No trace."

I looked at Dante. He was pouring water for Isobel, making sure the ice didn't splash her.

I looked at the man I had loved for two decades. And in that moment, the last tether snapped. I felt absolutely nothing.

"I'm sure, Julia," I said.

"What about the husband?" she asked.

I looked him right in the eye.

"The wedding is cancelled," I said into the phone, my voice clear and loud. "I am leaving."

Dante's head snapped up.

"Who is leaving?" he asked.

I slowly lowered the phone to my lap.

"A friend," I lied, keeping my voice steady. "She's finally leaving a toxic workplace."

Dante studied my face for a beat, searching for cracks. Seemingly satisfied, the tension in his shoulders relaxed, and he went back to his meal.

"Good for her," he said, cutting into his steak. "Quitting is usually a sign of weakness, but sometimes you have to cut dead weight."

The irony tasted like blood in my mouth-sharp, metallic, and bitter.

Four days left.

The next forty-eight hours were a blur of covert logistics. I moved money into offshore accounts. I shredded documents until the machine overheated. I packed a single carry-on bag.

Two days before my planned extraction, Dante came home early. He was carrying a large, heavy leather-bound album.

"Look at this," he said.

He opened it on the coffee table.

It was the photos from the shoot. And the island.

There was Dante, looking like a GQ model, holding Isobel's hand against her stomach. There was Dante kissing her forehead. There was a shot of them gazing at each other with a level of intimacy that made my skin crawl.

The photographer had edited them to look like wedding photos. Soft lighting. Romantic filters. A fantasy constructed on a lie.

"Isobel wants to show these to the baby one day," he said, his voice reverent. "To show him he was made from love."

"Made from a transaction," I corrected coldly.

Dante ignored me. He pulled out his phone and dialed Isobel on FaceTime.

"Did you see the one on the cliff?" he asked the screen. "The lighting is perfect."

I walked into the kitchen to get water. I couldn't breathe in the same room as that album.

Isobel's voice floated from the phone, tinny and sickeningly sweet.

"Is Nina there? Let me say hi."

Dante walked into the kitchen, holding the phone out to me.

"Say hello," he ordered.

I looked at the screen. Isobel was lying in bed, wearing a silk robe that looked suspiciously like one of mine. No, not suspiciously. I recognized the embroidery. It was mine.

"Hi, Nina," she chirped. "Don't the photos look magical? Dante is so photogenic."

"They're great," I said. My voice was flat. Dead.

A realization hit me then: I had paid the deposit for that photographer. I had booked him six months ago for our wedding.

I had paid for the documentation of my own replacement.

Dante hung up. He looked at me-really looked at me.

"You've been quiet," he said. "You haven't sent me the seating chart drafts."

"I handled it," I said.

"You're acting strange, Nina. Is this about the shrimp?"

I laughed. It bubbled up out of my chest, uncontrollable and jagged.

"No, Dante. It's not about the shrimp."

I walked past him towards the door. I needed air before I suffocated.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"The hospital," I lied. "Emergency consult."

I didn't go to the hospital. I walked around the block for three hours, pacing the pavement until my feet ached. When I came back, his car was gone. He was with her.

He was always with her.

The next day, I ran into them.

I was at the hospital to clear out my locker. They were coming out of the OBGYN wing.

Dante looked panicked. Isobel looked fragile, leaning heavily against him like a wilting flower.

"What's wrong?" I asked, my nursing instinct taking over.

"False alarm," Dante said, his voice tight. "Just some cramping. The doctor said she needs rest."

Isobel looked at me. Her eyes flicked to the badge in my hand. The temporary visitor badge.

"Leaving so soon?" she asked.

"Just finishing up," I said.

Dante was fussing with her scarf. "We need to get you home. The wedding is in two days. You need to be well enough to sit in the front row."

He looked at me. "The wedding proceeds as planned, Nina. No more sulking. My mother is already flying in."

I nodded. "Of course."

My compliance unsettled him. He frowned, opening his mouth to say something, but Isobel groaned.

Dante immediately turned his attention back to her.

I started to walk down the stairs. Isobel pulled away from Dante.

"I can walk," she snapped at him. "Give me space."

She followed me to the landing. Dante was a few steps behind, taking a call.

Isobel cornered me against the railing.

"You know he doesn't want you, right?" she whispered. Her voice was pure venom. "You're just the barren nursemaid. Once this baby is born, you're gone."

I looked at her. I didn't feel anger. I felt pity.

"I'm already gone, Isobel."

I tried to step around her.

She grabbed my arm. Then, with a theatrical gasp, she threw herself backward.

She didn't fall far-just two steps down to the landing. But she screamed like she had been thrown off a building.

Dante dropped his phone.

He was there in a second, scooping her up.

"What happened?" he roared.

Isobel was sobbing, clutching her stomach. "She pushed me, Dante! She said she hoped the baby would die!"

It was such a clumsy lie. A soap opera lie.

But Dante didn't look at the logic. He looked at the woman carrying his blood.

He turned to me. His face was twisted in a rage I had never seen directed at me.

"You are disgusting," he spat.

"Dante, check the cameras," I said, my voice eerily calm.

"Apologize to her!" he screamed. "Now!"

I looked at him. The man I saved. The man I loved. The man who was currently looking at me like I was a disease.

"No," I said.