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.