Traded To The Bratva: My Husband's Betrayal

Ninety-nine days. That was exactly how long it had been since my husband, Dante, traded my life to a Russian cartel just to save his mistress from a panic attack.

I walked onto the grounds of the Vitiello estate only to find him caressing her six-month-pregnant belly at my own funeral. He didn't look like a grieving widower; he looked like a man who had finally buried his mistake.

When I revealed I was alive, Dante didn't fall to his knees in relief. Instead, he protected Lucia. He believed her lies that I was insane, that I was a threat to his "heir."

To prove his loyalty to her, he stood by while my father whipped me in the family chapel until my back was in shreds. Then, he dragged me to the roof and threw me into a freezing pool, watching me drown simply because Lucia claimed I pushed her.

He didn't know Lucia was faking the pregnancy. He didn't know she was the one selling secrets to the Bratva. He broke his loyal wife to protect a traitor.

Now, six months later, he stands in the rain holding the Vitiello diamond necklace, begging me to come home. He thinks he can buy forgiveness.

But he doesn't see the man standing in the shadows behind me—the enforcer who took a bullet for me when Dante was busy breaking my bones.

I looked at the diamonds, then at my husband.

"I don't want a King," I whispered. "I chose the soldier."

Chapter 1

Ninety-nine days.

That was exactly how long it had been since my husband traded my life to a Russian cartel to save his mistress from a panic attack.

Now, ninety-nine days later, I walked onto the grounds of the Vitiello estate to find him caressing her six-month-pregnant belly at my own funeral.

The rain fell in unforgiving sheets, masking the sharp *clack* of my heels against the wet pavement. I stood at the fringe of the mourning crowd, a ghost wrapped in a trench coat, watching the performance play out.

It was a closed casket, naturally. There was nothing to put inside it.

Lucia stood by the grave, dabbing at dry eyes with a silk handkerchief, playing the grieving friend to perfection. And Dante Moretti, the man I had vowed to love until my last breath, looked somber—but not broken. He didn't look like a widower; he looked like a man who had finally buried his mistakes.

I shouldn’t be here. By all accounts, I should be rotting in a ditch on the outskirts of St. Petersburg.

But hate is a powerful fuel. It burns hotter than the Bratva’s vodka and hits harder than their fists.

I stepped forward. The sea of black umbrellas parted as if sliced by a blade. The silence that descended over the cemetery was heavier than the thunder rolling overhead.

Dante looked up. His eyes, usually the color of warm amber, went wide. The blood drained from his face so fast it left him looking like the corpse that was supposed to be in the box.

Beside him, Lucia froze. Her hand flew instinctively to her stomach, protecting the bump that shouldn't exist if their timeline of "shared grief" was to be believed.

"Seraphina," Dante whispered. It wasn’t a greeting. It was a question of sanity.

"Disappointed?" I asked. My voice was raspy, shredded from months of screaming in a soundproof cellar.

I didn’t wait for an answer. I turned on my heel and walked toward the waiting limousine, leaving the empty casket—and the stunned congregation—behind.

*

The drive to the penthouse was suffocating. Dante sat across from me, staring as if I might vanish into smoke.

He reached for my hand. I pulled away before he could make contact. He flinched as if I’d struck him.

"We thought you were dead," he said finally, his voice rough. "The Bratva... they sent a finger."

"It wasn’t mine." I held up my hands, splaying them in the dim light. Ten fingers. Scarred, nails broken and jagged, but all there.

"You didn't check the prints," I said, my tone devoid of warmth. "You didn't check because you just wanted it to be over."

He said nothing. He couldn't.

We arrived at the penthouse—the place that used to be my sanctuary. Now, the air hung heavy with the scent of vanilla and cheap ambition.

Lucia’s scent.

She was already there when we walked in, having been whisked away in a separate security car. She stood by the fireplace, her hands cradling her stomach. She looked at Dante, then at me, her eyes darting like a rat searching for an exit.

"Sera," she started, her voice trembling. "I... we were grieving."

I dropped my gaze to her stomach. "Grieving apparently involves a significant amount of unprotected sex."

"It was an accident," Dante interjected, stepping between us. Protecting her. Always protecting her. "We found comfort in each other after you were taken. We thought you were gone."

"Do the math, Dante," I snapped. "She’s six months along. I’ve been gone for three."

I took a step closer, watching the realization dawn on him. "That baby isn't a product of grief. It’s a product of betrayal."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Dante looked at Lucia. She paled, her skin turning the color of ash.

"He’s lying to himself," I said to her. "But you know the truth."

I walked to the desk and picked up the phone.

"What are you doing?" Dante asked, his voice low.

"Booking an appointment," I said. "At the clinic. You have a choice, Dante. The heir or the wife. You can’t have both. Not anymore."

Lucia let out a strangled sob. "My asthma! I can't breathe!"

Dante rushed to her side instantly. "Sera, stop it! She’s delicate."

"I was delicate too," I said, watching him hold her with a tenderness he hadn't shown me in years. "Until you pushed me toward the Russians because she coughed."

I reached into my coat and pulled out the papers I had prepared the moment I touched American soil. I slammed them onto the glass coffee table. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

"Sign them," I demanded. "Separation. I want out."

Dante looked at the papers, then at me. His expression shifted. The shock evaporated, replaced by that familiar, terrifying coldness that made him the Capo.

He stood up, leaving Lucia gasping on the sofa, and picked up the documents.

Slowly, deliberately, he tore them in half. Then in quarters.

"You are a Vitiello," he said, his voice a dangerous rumble. "And you are Mrs. Moretti. We do not divorce."

He tossed the confetti of paper onto the floor. "You are my property, Seraphina. Dead or alive."

He turned back to Lucia, scooping her up in his arms. "I'm taking her to the hospital. Do not leave this apartment."

I watched him carry her out, the door clicking shut behind him.

He chose her. Again.