His Unwanted Fiancée Was His True Savior

From the back cover

I was standing in five thousand dollars of hand-stitched lace when I received the medical report.

My fiancé, Dante de Rossi, the future Don of Chicago, had gotten another woman pregnant.

He didn't apologize. He didn't beg. He looked me in the eye and called it a "strategic necessity."

"Isobel saved my life five years ago," he said coldly. "I owe her this child. You will raise it as your own. It is the price of the Peace Treaty."

He forced me to cancel our engagement photos so he could take them with her.

He took her on the vacation meant for our honeymoon.

At dinner, he ordered me the seafood risotto, completely forgetting my deadly shellfish allergy, while fussing over Isobel’s water temperature.

When I tried to leave, he cornered me.

"You are a mob wife, Nina. Act like one. She is the hero who saved me."

I wanted to laugh.

Because five years ago, in that alley, Isobel wasn't even there.

I was the one in the mask. I was the one who stitched his femoral artery and saved his life, risking my own medical license.

He was destroying our twenty-year relationship to pay a debt to a liar.

I didn't scream. I didn't fight.

I simply picked up a red marker and walked to the calendar.

On the day of our wedding, while Dante stood at the altar waiting for his obedient Queen, I was already boarding a one-way flight to the other side of the world.

I left him nothing but four words scrawled across the date:

"Let's break up, Dante."