Nina Romano POV

I sat at the kitchen table, my gaze fixed on the wall calendar.

Red circles marred the white paper like fresh wounds—marking social obligations, charity galas, and mandatory family dinners.

But my eyes refused to move past a date from five weeks ago.

*“Business trip to New Jersey,”* it read in Dante’s sharp, aggressive handwriting.

A smuggling operation, he had told me.

A delivery he had to oversee personally.

I laughed softly, a dry, humorless sound that scraped against the silence of the empty house.

There was no delivery.

There was only a clinic, a test tube, and Isobel De Luca spreading her legs for the future that was supposed to belong to me.

I didn’t feel betrayed.

I felt stupid.

I had sutured his flesh, guarded his darkest secrets, and bent my entire life to fit the jagged edges of his schedule.

I had turned down offers from prestigious hospitals just to stay here, wading through this blood-soaked pit, simply to be near him.

My phone lay on the table.

The screen lit up, cutting through the dim light.

An email from Dr. Rossi in Milan.

No relation to the crime family—merely a serendipitous echo of a surname.

He had offered me a position on his research team six months ago.

I had declined.

*“I’m getting married,”* I had written back.

I tapped the email and dialed the number listed in the signature.

It was late in Milan, but he picked up after the second ring.

“Dr. Romano?” His voice was thick with surprise. “Is everything alright?”

“Is the position still open?” I asked.

No greeting.

No small talk.

There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line.

“Nina, we haven’t filled the spot yet, but… your wedding?”

“My plans have changed,” I said.

I looked through the glass door to the balcony, where Dante was smoking a cigar, his back turned to me.

He looked like a god of war, untouchable and steeped in arrogance.

“I need a fresh start, Tim. As far away as possible.”

“We can have you here in two weeks,” Tim said. His voice was gentle, devoid of the razor-sharp hardness I had grown accustomed to. “I’ll handle the paperwork. It’s a classified program, Nina. Once you’re here, you are practically invisible to the rest of the world.”

Invisible.

That was exactly what I wanted to be.

“I accept,” I said.

I hung up.

Standing, I walked over to the calendar and picked up a black marker.

June 20th.

Our wedding day.

I didn’t draw a heart around it.

I didn’t cross it out.

I wrote a small, almost imperceptible “E” in the corner.

Extraction.

Like a bullet lodged deep in the meat, requiring removal before sepsis could rot me from the inside out.

Dante entered, the stench of tobacco and cold night air clinging to his suit.

He saw me standing by the calendar.

“Counting the days?” he asked, a ghost of that charming smile playing on his lips—the smile that used to make my knees weak.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m counting every single one.”

He moved closer, his hands settling heavily on my waist.

He pulled me against him, his body hard and familiar.

“It’s going to be a grand wedding, Nina. The family needs this.”

He spoke of the Family as if it were a deity we were both required to worship.

“I know,” I whispered, leaning my head against his chest so he couldn’t see my eyes.

I listened to his heartbeat.

Calm.

Steady.

It was the heart of a man who believed he held the world in a chokehold.

He had no idea that the woman in his arms had already become a ghost.

Nina Romano POV

The music in the bar was deafening, the bass thrumming against my ribcage, yet it failed to drown out the chaotic noise in my head.

I sat in a corner booth with two friends from the hospital.

They were laughing at a joke I hadn't heard.

I just stared at my phone.

Linda, my closest confidante, nudged me sharply with her elbow.

"Hey, Earth to Nina. You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Just tired," I lied.

I refreshed my feed.

And there it was.

A post from the official De Luca family account.

No caption.

Just an image.

Dante sat in an armchair, a book in his hand, while Isobel perched on the armrest, one hand resting possessively on his shoulder.

She smiled at the camera, looking fragile and triumphant all at once.

He wasn't looking at the lens.

He was looking at the book, but his posture was relaxed.

Domestic.

It was an image that screamed "future."

An image that sold the alliance to the world.

"Oh my God," whispered Linda, who had been reading over my shoulder. "Is that...?"

"Business," I said, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "It's all just business."

"Business?" Linda hissed. "Nina, he looks like he's about to rub her feet. Where are you in this picture? Oh, that's right—you're at home, waiting like a good little puppy."

I turned off the phone and placed it face-down on the table.

"The wedding is off," I said.

The words hung in the air, heavier than the smoke swirling around us.

My friends fell silent.

"What?" Sarah asked.

"I haven't told anyone yet. Not even him."

I grabbed my drink and downed it in one go.

The vodka burned, but not hot enough to sear away the pain in my chest.

I left early.

The penthouse was dark when I arrived.

I kicked off my shoes in the hallway.

Dante was there.

He was sitting on the sofa, his jacket draped over the backrest.

As I walked past him, the scent hit me.

Not tobacco.

Not scotch.

Vanilla and jasmine.

Isobel's perfume.

It was sickly sweet, heavy, suffocating.

It clung to him like a second skin.

"You're late," he said, without turning around.

His voice was cold—the voice of the Underboss.

"I was out with friends," I said.

"You've been drinking." It was a statement, not a question. "It is unbecoming for my future wife to come home past midnight smelling of alcohol."

I froze.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to ask him how it was "becoming" for a future husband to reek of his pregnant mistress's perfume.

But I didn't.

I had to play the game.

Just two more weeks.

"I'm sorry, Dante," I said.

He stood up and walked toward me.

He studied me, searching for cracks in my facade.

"We need to talk," he said. "Tomorrow. A sit-down. It concerns the logistics for the coming months."

A sit-down.

The term they used for negotiations with enemies or subordinates.

"Of course," I said. "Put it in my calendar."

I went into the bedroom and closed the door.

I leaned back against the wood and inhaled deeply.

He smelled like her.

He had spent the entire evening with her, while I sat in a bar pretending I still had a future.

I went into the bathroom and scrubbed my hands until they were red and raw.

But I knew I couldn't wash this dirt away.