I was exiled at the break of dawn.

No luggage. No money. Just the blood-crusted clothes on my back and a body that felt less like flesh and bone and more like a roadmap of violence.

The Don's men drove me to the city limits, the tires crunching on gravel as they pulled over. They kicked me out of the car like a stray dog.

"Don't come back," one of them sneered, tossing my purse onto the sidewalk. "Next time, it's a bullet."

I watched their taillights fade, then turned and limped to a bus station. I used the emergency cash I kept sewn into the lining of my purse to buy a ticket to the Upper East Side.

I had one place left to go. The old apartment Dante and I lived in before he became a Capo. My passport was there. My jewelry. My escape.

The doorman didn't recognize me. Why would he? I looked like a junkie—bruised, limping, my hair matted with dried chili water from the torture. But I had the key.

I let myself in. The apartment was quiet. Dust motes danced in the sunlight like ghosts of the life I used to have.

I went straight to the safe in the bedroom closet. I punched in the code. Our anniversary.

The red light blinked. Error.

I tried again. Error.

"Looking for this?"

I spun around. Lucia was sitting in the armchair in the corner, looking pristine in white silk. She held my passport in one hand and a stun gun in the other.

She stood up, the blue electricity crackling between the prongs of the taser with a menacing buzz.

"You just don't know when to quit," she purred.

"That's my passport," I said, backing away until my spine hit the wall. "Give it to me, and I'll disappear. You'll never see me again."

"But Dante might," she smiled, cruel and sharp. "He might get sentimental. He might remember how you looked before I ruined you."

She lunged.

I tried to dodge, but my broken ribs screamed in protest, slowing me down. The taser hit my thigh.

The pain was electric, a white-hot lightning bolt seizing my muscles. I crumpled to the floor.

Lucia stood over me. She kicked me in the stomach. I curled into a ball, retching bile onto the hardwood.

"You are nothing," she spat. "You are the past. I am the future."

The front door opened. Heavy footsteps echoed in the hall.

"Lucia?" Dante's voice.

He walked into the bedroom. He saw me on the floor, broken and gasping. He saw the taser in Lucia's hand.

He didn't rush to help me. He walked over to Lucia and gently took the weapon from her, his expression unreadable.

"What are you doing here?" he asked me, his voice tired and devoid of warmth.

"Getting my things," I gasped, clutching my side. "Leaving."

Dante looked at the passport in Lucia's hand. He took it. He looked at the photo of me, young and smiling, taken before the Bratva, before the betrayal.

He tossed it onto my chest. It landed with a soft thud.

"Go," he said.

"Dante!" Lucia protested, her voice shrill. "She broke in!"

"She is leaving, Lucia," Dante said, his voice hard as stone. He looked down at me, his eyes dark. "You are still my property on paper, Seraphina. But you are dead to this family. If you ever touch my heir, if you ever come near Lucia again..."

He let the threat hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

I grabbed the passport. I used the bedframe to pull myself up, my legs trembling. I looked at him one last time.

"You will regret this," I whispered, my voice raspy with unshed tears. "When you realize what you've done, there will be no one left to forgive you."

I limped out of the apartment. I didn't look back.

I went straight to the airport. I didn't go to the hospital. I didn't go to the police. I bought a ticket to the first international flight leaving the terminal. New Zealand. The end of the world.

Three days later, my phone rang. It was a burner I had bought at a kiosk. Only one person had the number—Lola.

But it wasn't Lola.

"We have her," a distorted voice said. "Bring two million to the abandoned textile factory in Queens. Or we cut the baby out."

My blood ran cold. Then, the realization hit me like a physical blow.

They didn't have me. I was in Auckland, watching the rain fall on a strange city.

They had Lucia.

Or so they thought.

Dante Moretti POV

The phone call didn’t just break the silence of my office; it detonated it.

"We have Seraphina," the voice on the other end rasped, distortion layering the words with grit. "She's alive. And we're going to finish what the Bratva started unless you bring five million to the docks."

My heart slammed against my ribs, hammering out a violent rhythm I hadn't felt in months.

Seraphina.

She had vanished three days ago. I had convinced myself it was for the best. I had told myself she was dangerous, unstable—a wildfire I couldn't control.

But the silence in the penthouse was deafening. Lucia's incessant prattle about baby names and nursery colors had begun to feel like static interfering with a radio signal.

"Let me speak to her," I demanded, my grip tightening on the mahogany desk.

"No talking. Just payment." The line went dead.

I didn't think. I moved. Instinct took the wheel. I grabbed my keys and my gun in one fluid motion.

"Dante?" Lucia called from the living room, her voice shrill against my panic. "Where are you going?"

"Business," I said, not looking at her. I couldn't. If I looked at her, I would see the woman I chose—the safe option. And right now, all I wanted was the woman I had discarded.

I drove to the hospital first. Lola. The bartender. She was the only one Sera ever really talked to.

I found her smoking outside her apartment building, leaning against the brickwork with a weary slouch. I slammed the car door, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

"Where is she?" I barked, pinning her with a look that usually made grown men beg for mercy.

Lola blew a lazy stream of smoke in my face. "Gone, asshole. And good riddance."

"Someone has her," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "A kidnapper called. They want ransom."

Lola laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound that grated on my nerves. "Kidnapped? She's on a beach in the southern hemisphere by now, Dante. I saw the flight confirmation. She's gone."

"Then who..." I trailed off, confusion warring with the adrenaline in my veins.

My phone buzzed again. A text. A photo.

It wasn't Seraphina.

It was Lucia.

She was tied to a chair in a warehouse, fear etched into her features. A gun pressed to her temple.

The text read: "Wrong wife. We have the favorite. Bring the money. Or the heir dies."

My stomach dropped as if the floor had vanished beneath me. I had left her alone in the penthouse. The guards... where the hell were the guards?

I ran back to the car. I called the head of security. No answer.

I drove like a man possessed to the coordinates sent in the text. An abandoned textile factory in Queens.

I didn't call for backup. I needed to fix this. I needed to save the mother of my child.

But as I drove, tearing through red lights, a dark thought clawed at my mind. Why did the first caller say they had Seraphina? Why the confusion?

I pulled up to the factory. It was a rotting husk of brick and broken glass, looming against the grey sky. I checked my clip. Full.

I moved into the shadows, hugging the wall. I breached the side door, silent as a ghost. I expected guards. I expected resistance.

There was nothing. Just the melancholy drip of water and the scurrying of rats.

I moved toward the main floor, weapon raised. I heard voices.

"Is he coming?" A woman's voice. Impatient. Annoyed.

"He's coming, babe. Relax. The tracker shows he's two minutes out." A man's voice. Rough. Familiar.

I froze.

I peered around a rusted pillar.

Lucia was there.

She wasn't tied up. She was sitting on a crate, casually eating an apple.

The man was standing next to her, checking his phone. It was Marco. One of my own soldiers. A man I had trusted with my life.

"You sure he'll pay?" Marco asked, glancing at the entrance.

"He paid for Seraphina, didn't he?" Lucia laughed, a cold, calculating sound. "He traded her to the Russians. He'll pay double for the 'heir'."

She rubbed her stomach possessively.

"Besides," she continued, taking a crunchy bite of the apple. "I need the cash. This baby isn't going to be cheap, especially since it's yours, Marco. We need to disappear before it comes out looking like you."

The world stopped. The factory walls seemed to close in, crushing the air from my lungs.

The baby. Marco. The kidnapping.

It was all a lie.

Dante Moretti POV

I didn't shoot. Not immediately. Death was too easy for them.

I holstered my gun and stepped out from the shadows. The deliberate click of my Italian leather shoes on the concrete was the only warning they got.

"Dante!" Lucia shrieked. She scrambled off the crate, dropping the apple. It rolled across the floor, a hollow sound that died at my feet.

Marco went for his gun.

A mistake.

I was faster. I put a bullet in his kneecap before his hand even touched his waistband.

The sound of the gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. He screamed and collapsed, clutching his shattered leg as blood began to pool beneath him.

Lucia backed away, her face draining of color. She looked from Marco to me, her eyes wide with primal terror.

"Dante, thank God! He forced me! He threatened the baby!"

I looked at Marco writhing on the floor. Then I looked at Lucia.

"I heard you," I said softly.

Lucia froze.

"I heard about the money," I said, stepping closer. "I heard about the paternity."

"No," she whispered, shaking her head frantically. "You misunderstood. I was playing along! To save us!"

"Unlock your phone," I said.

"What?"

"Unlock. Your. Phone."

She fumbled with it, her hands shaking so hard she almost dropped it. Finally, the screen lit up, and she handed it to me.

I scrolled. Texts to Marco. Photos. Dates.

*Plan B is a go. Make the call about Seraphina first. Confuse him. Then grab me.*

*He’s so stupid. He actually believes the asthma attack story.*

*Can’t wait to leave this boring life. Just need the payout.*

I scrolled back further. Seven months ago.

*Positive test. It’s yours, Marco. We hit the jackpot. I’ll pin it on Dante.*

I looked up. The rage was a cold, solid thing in my chest. It wasn't fire. It was ice. Absolute zero.

I had destroyed Seraphina. I had broken her body, her spirit, her trust. I had sent her to hell and back. For this. For a lie wrapped in a pretty face.

"Where is Seraphina?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm.

"I don't know!" Lucia cried. "She left! She's gone!"

"You staged the Russian kidnapping too, didn't you?"

Silence.

"Answer me!" I roared, the sound echoing off the metal beams.

"Yes!" she screamed. "I told Marco where she'd be! I wanted her gone! She had everything! The name, the status, you! I was just the bastard sister living in her shadow!"

I looked at Marco. He was whimpering, clutching his ruined knee.

"Get up," I told Lucia.

"Dante, please, the baby..."

"The baby isn't mine," I said. "And neither are you."

I dragged Marco by his collar, leaving a thick trail of blood. I grabbed Lucia by the arm.

"We are going home," I said. "And then, I am going to find my wife."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. My assistant.

I ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.

I pulled it out, annoyed. A video link.

*Boss. You need to see this. It's circulating on the encrypted networks.*

I clicked it.

It was a video from a club security camera. Time stamped eight months ago.

Lucia. In a VIP booth. With Marco. And two men from the rival cartel. The very cartel I was fighting when Seraphina was taken.

She wasn't just cheating. She was selling secrets. She was the leak.

I looked at her. She wasn't just a liar. She was a traitor.

And in our world, traitors don't get divorces. They get erased.

I shoved her toward the exit.

"Walk," I said. "Before I drag you."

I had to find Seraphina. I had to tell her she was right. I had to beg.

But deep down, I knew the look in her eyes when she left the apartment.

I wasn't just a husband who cheated. I was the enemy. And she was never coming back.