Just A Placeholder: Dying For His Mistress

I stood on the tarmac clutching white magnolias, watching the man I loved hand his loyalty to the woman born to destroy me.

Dante Cavallaro, the Ruthless Underboss, didn't just leave me for Sofia Moretti.

He revealed that for two years, I wasn't his lover. I was a human shield.

The heavy iron bangle he forced me to wear wasn't a gift for my protection.

"It's a Malocchio anchor," he sneered as I lay paralyzed on the floor. "It drains the wearer's luck to keep Sofia healthy. You are just the filter."

My body began to rot from the inside out, my nerves dying one by one.

When I was finally on my deathbed, unable to move or speak, Dante didn't cry for me.

He cried because his tool was broken.

He forced the cursed bangle onto his own wrist, begging the universe to keep me alive so I could continue to suffer in Sofia's place.

"Please," he sobbed into my sheets. "Don't leave me alone with the bad luck."

I used my last breath to make a wish—not for him, but for my freedom.

I closed my eyes and died.

Exactly one hour later, Dante's phone rang.

It was his father.

"Sofia just collapsed," he said. "Her heart just stopped."

I was the vessel.

And now that I was gone, the poison had come home to the King.

Chapter 1

Elena POV

I stood on the tarmac, clutching a bouquet of white magnolias for the man who once promised me protection, only to watch him hand his luggage-and his loyalty-to the woman born to destroy me.

The wind on the private airstrip whipped my hair across my face, stinging my eyes, yet I didn't blink.

I couldn't.

My fingers trembled around the stems of the flowers, not from the biting cold, but from the slow, agonizing death of every nerve ending inside my body.

I had waited two years for this moment.

Two years of silence while Dante Cavallaro, the Ruthless Underboss of the Chicago Outfit, expanded the family's cocaine routes in Sicily.

He had told me to wait.

He had told me I was his sanctuary.

But as the Gulfstream jet taxied to a halt, the deafening roar of the engines drowned out the pathetic beat of my heart.

I stood beside a rusted sedan, the only transport I could afford.

Suddenly, the gravel crunched behind me.

A convoy of three black, armored SUVs tore onto the strip, cutting off my line of sight with military precision.

Doors flew open.

Men with earpieces and submachine guns fanned out, creating a perimeter that pushed me back toward the chain-link fence.

Then she stepped out.

Sofia Moretti.

The daughter of the rival Don.

She wore a white fur coat that cost more than my father's life debt.

She didn't look at the plane.

She looked at me.

Her lips curled into a smile that was sharp enough to draw blood.

"You look exposed, Elena," she said, her voice slicing through the wind. "Like a gutter rat trying to sneak into the palace."

I tightened my grip on the magnolias until the stems snapped beneath my fingers.

"I am where he told me to be," I said, my voice quiet but steady.

Sofia laughed, a hollow, tinkling sound.

"He tells his dogs to sit, too. It doesn't mean he lets them eat at the table."

The jet door opened.

The stairs lowered.

Dante appeared.

He was taller than I remembered, his shoulders broader, his suit cut to perfection, tailored to hide the monster beneath.

He scanned the tarmac.

His dark eyes, the color of a moonless night, swept over the SUVs, the armed guards, and finally landed on me.

My breath hitched.

I took a step forward, the flowers heavy in my weakening arms.

He didn't smile.

He didn't nod.

He looked through me as if I were a ghost haunting a place where I didn't belong.

He walked down the stairs, his stride powerful, arrogant.

Sofia glided forward to meet him.

She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest.

Dante didn't push her away.

He placed a hand on the small of her back, a possessive, familiar gesture that shattered my ribs one by one.

He handed his briefcase to one of Sofia's soldiers.

He was getting into her car.

"Dante," I whispered, though the wind stole the name before he could hear me.

He paused before ducking into the armored SUV.

He looked at me one last time.

It wasn't a look of apology.

It was a look of dismissal.

He got in.

The door slammed shut with a finality that echoed in my bones.

The convoy sped away, kicking up dust and gravel, leaving me standing alone on the empty runway with a bouquet of wilting flowers and a heart that beat only out of habit, not hope.