He Saved His Mistress, Not His Wife

I was trapped under a massive oak bookcase, my leg shattered, dust filling my lungs.

My husband, Dante, the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit, finally found me. But just as he lifted the heavy beam to free me, his earpiece crackled.

It was news about Sofia, his childhood friend and the woman he truly loved.

"She scratched her arm on the car door, Boss. She's hyperventilating. She won't board the jet without you."

Dante froze. He looked at me, bleeding on the floor, secretly ten weeks pregnant with his child. Then he looked at the door.

"It's just a broken leg, Elena," he said coldly, slowly lowering the crushing weight back onto me.

"You are a doctor. You know it's not fatal. Sofia needs me."

He ran to comfort a woman with a papercut, leaving his wife and unborn child to be buried alive in the rubble.

I miscarried alone in the dark, tracing the number of a divorce lawyer on the floorboards in my own blood.

Three days later, while he was peeling grapes for Sofia in a VIP hospital suite, I packed my medical degree and a single gym bag.

I didn't go to a hotel. I boarded a military cargo plane to a war zone in South Sudan.

By the time the Ice Prince realized his castle was empty, I was already thousands of miles away, and I wasn't coming back.

Chapter 1

I stood in silence and watched my husband, the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit, sign the document that effectively condemned my brother to rot in a cartel basement.

Without missing a beat, he turned to me and asked if I was wearing the red lipstick he liked.

Five years.

That is how long I have been Elena Cavallaro.

Before that, I was Dr. Elena Vitiello, a trauma surgeon with steady hands and a heart that beat for saving lives.

Now, I am an ornament.

A peace offering traded by a failing family to the Cavallaros to settle a gambling debt that wasn't mine.

Dante Cavallaro stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his high-rise office.

He is a man carved from marble and nightmares.

They call him the Ice Prince.

He wears bespoke three-piece suits that cost more than my medical school tuition, and he kills with the same detachment he uses to check his stock portfolio.

"Dante," I said.

My voice was steady, though my hands were trembling behind the silk of my evening gown.

"Luca is in the neutral zone. The intel says the cartel has him. You have soldiers stationed three miles away."

Dante didn't turn around.

He was fastidiously adjusting his cufflinks.

"The Summit is tonight, Elena. We have a truce with the cartel. If I send men into the zone, the truce breaks. War restarts."

"He is my brother," I whispered, the plea catching in my throat.

"He is a low-level associate who went where he wasn't supposed to go," Dante said, his voice void of emotion.

He finally turned to look at me.

His eyes were like the barrel of a gun.

Cold.

Empty.

"The Code comes first. The Family comes first. You know this."

"I am your family," I said.

"You are my wife," he corrected sharply. "There is a difference."

He walked over to me.

He didn't touch me.

He inspected me.

"That dress," he said, gesturing to the emerald silk that hugged my curves. "It's too low cut. It distracts from the message of austerity we are trying to project tonight. Go change."

I felt the air leave my lungs.

"My brother is going to die tonight."

"Luca knew the risks of the life," Dante said, checking his watch with practiced indifference. "The car is waiting. Do not make me wait, Elena. Punctuality is a virtue."

He walked out.

I stood there, frozen.

I am a surgeon.

I know how to stop bleeding.

But I didn't know how to stop the hemorrhage of my own dignity.

I pawned my mother’s jade bracelet an hour later.

I hired private mercenaries.

They were too slow.

By the time they crossed the border, Luca was dead.

Infection.

Torture.

He died alone in the dirt while I was smiling at a gala, clutching a glass of champagne that tasted like bile.

I found out via a text message from the mercenary captain.

Target deceased. Returning deposit.

I was standing next to Dante in the VIP circle when I read it.

I let out a sound.

A small, broken noise that escaped my throat before I could stop it.

Dante looked at me, annoyed.

"Control yourself," he murmured, his jaw tight. "The Commission is watching."

Then his phone buzzed.

His face, usually a mask of stone, shattered.

Panic.

Raw, terrified panic.

I had never seen that expression on him.

"What is it?" I asked, thinking maybe we were under attack.

"It's Sofia," he said. His voice cracked.

"She fainted while reporting on the famine in St. Louis. She’s in the hospital."

Sofia Ricci.

The ward.

The daughter of the man who died saving Dante's father.

The woman who plays the fragility card like a poker pro.

"She fainted?" I asked, incredulous. "Luca is dead, Dante. My brother is dead."

He didn't hear me.

He was already shouting orders into his headset.

"Scramble the jet. Get Dr. Rossi on the line. I’m coming personally."

He left me.

He left the Gala.

He left the Peace Summit he sacrificed my brother to protect.

I watched him run.

I watched the Ice Prince melt for a woman who wasn't his wife.

I drove to the private airstrip.

I stood on the tarmac, the wind whipping my hair across my face like a lash.

I watched Dante carry Sofia off the jet.

She looked fine.

She was clinging to his neck, burying her face in the lapel of his expensive suit.

"I was so scared, Dante," she whimpered.

"I've got you," he said, his voice tender. "I've got you, piccola. I'm taking you to the safe house. You need rest."

He walked past me.

He didn't even see me.

I was invisible.

I was a ghost in my own marriage.

I looked down at the tracking number on the divorce papers I had hidden in my glove box for six months.

I took my phone out.

I dialed the number for Doctors Without Borders.

"This is Dr. Vitiello," I said, using my maiden name for the first time in five years. "I'm available for deployment."