Now We Are Even, Underboss

On the eve of our marriage, my fiancé, Dante—Underboss of the Moretti family—was diagnosed with severe PTSD after a shootout and supposedly lost all memory of me.

Around the same time, I discovered I was pregnant.

"Maybe a child," the doctor suggested, "will awaken the part of him that still loves you."

I clung to that hope until I heard them at the boxing gym.

"Faking PTSD to ditch the Principessa? Damn, Dante, that's cold," one of his men laughed.

"Shut up," he snapped, but there was no heat in it. He was enjoying this.

"I'll marry her. Eventually," he said. "First, I'm gonna have some fun."

Another voice jeered. "Screwing her cousin and whores, you mean? That's bold, even for you."

Dante just chuckled. "You don't get it. Those women… I can't stay away from that kind of thrill. It's fucking addictive."

Without another word, I turned on my heel and left.

That night, at a private clinic, I scheduled an abortion.

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1

My fiancé, Dante—the man who once swore he loved me—was at his club, lost in the debauchery of his VIP room.

There, he reveled with women barely out of their teens, their flirtatious laughter echoing in the air.

"Harder, come on! My powerful boss..."

"Ah! Any rougher and I don't think I can take it!"

Over the phone, I heard the familiar voice of my cousin, Carina—panting, laughing.

In his haze, Dante hadn't even realized he'd pocket-dialed the wrong number.

I couldn't fucking believe it. My fiancé. My own cousin. Lost in their sordid little world.

A wave of revulsion burned through me.

I hung up and drove straight to the clinic.

That night, I returned to the Falcone estate.

It was the home I once belonged to, a place I hadn’t set foot in since my “relationship” with Dante began.

As the Principessa of the Falcone family, I’d been willing to sacrifice everything for Dante—my identity, my pride, all of it.

But now, I finally saw how blind I had been.

When the Falcone family's doctor learned of my decision, his eyes clouded with confusion.

"Isabella, this child represents the union of the Falcone and Moretti families. You know what's at stake. Are you certain about this? If Dante finds out, the shock could trigger a relapse."

I gave a bitter smile, my gaze falling to my flat stomach.

"He'd probably feign a heart attack if he knew."

After all, he was still hopelessly entangled in the arms of the young, beautiful women at his club.

How was this possible? The same man who had wept while proposing to me was now faking an illness just to cheat.

Unable to persuade me, the doctor reluctantly prepared the surgical documents.

Still, he insisted on calling Dante.

"Isabella, this child isn't just yours. Even if Dante is sick, he should be here to sign the papers. He needs to be with you. What if this is all just a misunderstanding?"

I didn't stop him.

Deep down, I knew this child had been the strongest bond between us—a bond I had cherished, knowing how difficult it was for me to conceive due to my endometriosis.

When I was diagnosed with fertility issues, Dante had been unwavering.

He claimed he loved me enough to defy his own parents, fighting them just to marry me.

Now, as I chose to part with our child, the least he could do was be here to say goodbye.

But when the call connected, his cold laughter echoed through the phone.

"Isabella's pregnant? Impossible. How much did my dear Principessa pay you to spin this little fairy tale? If she thinks a baby will force my hand, tell her to forget it. Who the fuck even knows if the kid is mine?"

The dial tone buzzed in my ear, his scornful laughter hanging in the silence of the operating room.

I signed the papers myself, closing my eyes as the ink dried.

Waking up after the procedure, my phone was flooded with a dozen messages from Dante.

Dante: Isabella, I didn't realize you cared so little for me. I'm sick, and you're still pushing for this marriage? You, the Principessa of the Falcone family, resorting to faking a pregnancy to trick me? From now on, we're done. Move out. I don't want to see you again.

A bitter thought surfaced—he had the nerve to kick me out of a penthouse my dowry had paid for. The Morettis had power, but they never had that kind of cash.

I glanced at the bloody gauze, the only trace of the child that would never be, and replied calmly, "Okay."

He didn't deserve to be a father.

In the three days I spent recovering in the hospital, he never once showed his face.

But his social media became a highlight reel of parties, booze, and fawning women—a clear message that he was making up for lost time.

I knew he was posting it all for me, so I gave him what he wanted and liked every single post.

On the day of my discharge, as I was finishing the paperwork, I saw an unexpected sight: Dante and the Falcone family doctor in the hallway, rushing a gurney toward the emergency room.

What was the Underboss of the Moretti family doing in a hospital on Falcone turf? It made no sense.

Dante's eyes flickered over me for a fraction of a second before he quickly looked away, pretending he didn't know me.

The ER doctor's anxious shouts, however, reached me loud and clear.

"Prep OR One! We need a rare Rh-negative blood type! Patient has a ruptured corpus luteum from a car accident, severe internal bleeding—needs a transfusion, now!"

"What? The blood bank is out?"

After the call, the doctor rushed over to Dante and whispered something in his ear.

Dante stopped short.

The next moment, he turned and strode toward me, a flash of desperation on his face.

"Isabella, if you donate blood for Carina, I'll forget about you stalking me," he said, his voice urgent but laced with a sickening sense of entitlement.

I froze, then let out a bitter laugh.

"I wasn't stalking you."

"Enough excuses! A life is on the line!"

He grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the doctor.

"She's Rh-negative. Take as much as you need, just keep Carina alive!"

I struggled against his grip, but his hand tightened like a vise, forcing me forward.

I asked coldly, "You wanted to cut all ties. How would you even know my blood type?"

I stared at him, waiting for an answer.