He Chose Her Lies, I Chose Revenge

I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella. Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark. But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved. Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies. When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel. While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest. The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella. He ordered my father to punish me. I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth. That night, the love in my heart finally died. On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape—the only proof that I was Seven. Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney. By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return. Chapter 1 Seraphina Vitiello POV The phantom bite of the scalpel that had carved my heart out in my previous life didn't sting half as much as the look in my father's eyes right now. He held out a one-way ticket to London, essentially telling me to go die quietly so my sister could shine. I blinked, and the ghost of a surgical saw vibrated against my ribcage. The sharp reek of antiseptic and pooling blood vanished, abruptly replaced by the suffocating scent of expensive cigars and old leather. I wasn't on the operating table anymore. I wasn't watching my own life force drain onto the floor while Dante Moretti exchanged vows with my sister. I was back. I looked down at my hands. They were unscarred. My fingernails were bitten down to the quick—a nervous habit I had broken years ago. "Take the ticket, Seraphina," my father said. His voice was a low rumble, the kind that once made my bones rattle in fear. He sat behind his massive oak desk, the Don of the Vitiello crime family, regarding me like I was a stubborn stain on his pristine carpet. "Isabella and Dante's engagement party is next month," my mother added from the velvet armchair in the corner. She didn't look at me. She was too busy adjusting the massive diamond on her finger, catching the light just so. "We can't have you here, creating... tension," she said. "You know how sensitive your sister is. Your presence upsets her." *Tension.* That was a polite word for it. In my last life, I had begged. I had fallen to my knees right on this Persian rug. I had grabbed my father's hand and sworn on my life that I was the one who saved Dante. I had tried to tell them that Isabella was lying, that she had stolen my code name, "Seven." That she had stolen the man I nursed back to health in that safe house when he was blind, bleeding, and broken. They had looked at me with disgust then. They looked at me with disgust now. But this time, the desperation in my chest was gone. It had been cut out of me, along with my organs, on a cold steel table while they toasted to the happy couple. I looked at the plane ticket. Economy class. Of course. Isabella flew private. The spare was lucky not to be shipped in the cargo hold. "London," I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Hollow. Scraped clean. "It's for the best," my father said, his tone final. "You'll stay there until the wedding is over. Maybe longer. We'll send you an allowance. Don't come back until we summon you." I remembered this moment. I remembered screaming that I loved Dante. I remembered my father slapping me so hard my lip split, tasting the copper of my own blood. I remembered staying, fighting, trying to prove my worth, only to end up as a literal organ bank for my golden sister when her kidneys failed. Dante Moretti. The Capo of the Chicago Outfit. The man who controlled half the city's vice. The man who had held my hand in the dark and promised me the world, only to look at me in the light and see nothing but a liar. I picked up the ticket. The paper felt crisp and sharp against my thumb, grounding me. "Okay," I said. The silence in the room was deafening. My father blinked, his mask of indifference slipping for a fraction of a second. "What?" "I said okay," I repeated. "I'll go." My mother finally looked up. Her eyes narrowed, suspicious of my sudden compliance. "You're not going to make a scene?" she asked. "You're not going to run to Dante and spread your lies again?" *Lies.* That’s what they called the truth here. "No," I said. "I won't run to Dante." Because Dante Moretti was dead to me. He died the moment he let them drag me into that operating room. He died the moment he chose the beautiful lie over the ugly truth. I turned around and walked toward the heavy wooden doors. "Seraphina," my father called out. I stopped, my hand hovering on the brass knob. "Don't miss your flight," he warned. I didn't look back. "I won't," I whispered. I walked out of the office and down the long, marble hallway. I passed the portrait of Isabella hanging in the foyer. She was smiling, radiant, perfect. The Golden Child. I was just the spare parts. But spares had one advantage. Nobody noticed when they stopped working. Nobody noticed when they stopped caring. I walked up the stairs to my room, the ghost of my death trailing behind me. I wasn't going to fight for a place in this family anymore. I was going to let them rot.