His Unwanted Fiancée Was His True Savior

Nina Ford POV

I pressed the pen into the paper, signing my name on the resignation letter. The ink looked stark and final against the crisp white bond.

It was the last signature of Nina Ford, the Mob Doctor.

St. Jude's wasn't really a hospital. It was a laundry service for the Outfit's dirty work, disguised as a premier trauma center. I had spent five years here stitching up knife wounds and charting them as clumsy kitchen accidents.

I handed the file to the administrator. He blinked, looking visibly unsettled.

"Mrs. Rossi," he said, his voice dropping to a nervous whisper. "Does the Don know about this?"

"I'm not Mrs. Rossi," I said sharply. "And he will find out soon enough."

I walked out of the sliding glass doors. The air in Chicago felt heavy, like it was pressing down on my lungs with the weight of the coming storm. Five days left.

When I got back to the apartment, the silence I had carefully cultivated was gone.

Luggage barricaded the hallway. Designer bags with gold hardware gleaming under the lights.

Isobel was here.

I walked into the living room. Dante was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. Isobel was leaning over his shoulder, pointing at something on the screen.

She looked healthy. Glowing, even. The sea air had treated her well.

"You're back," I said.

Dante looked up. He frowned at the empty shelves behind me.

"Where are the vases?" he asked. "And the books?"

"I'm decluttering," I said, my voice flat. "The cleaner is coming tomorrow for a deep scrub."

He accepted the lie not because it was convincing, but because he didn't care enough to challenge it. He turned back to Isobel.

Isobel smiled at me. It was a sharp, predatory smile wrapped in false sweetness.

"We had such a wonderful time, Nina. Dante was amazing with the itinerary. We even found this little bistro that served the most incredible pasta."

"That sounds nice," I said.

"We're going to dinner tonight," Dante said. He stood up, adjusting his cuffs. "To celebrate the successful trip. You're coming."

"I'm tired, Dante."

"It wasn't a request, Nina."

His voice dropped an octave. It was the voice he used when he gave orders to his soldiers-cold, absolute, and violent.

Isobel pouted. "Oh, come on, Nina. Don't be jealous. It's just dinner. Unless you're upset about... the situation?"

She placed a hand on her flat stomach.

Dante's eyes hardened. "Don't be rude to her, Nina. She is carrying my legacy. Get changed."

I went to the bedroom. I put on a black dress. It felt appropriate. I was mourning, after all.

The restaurant was one of those places where the lighting was too dim and the menus didn't have prices. Dante sat at the head of the table. Isobel sat to his right. I sat to his left.

The waiter approached.

Dante didn't even open the menu.

"For the lady on my right, the grilled salmon. No heavy sauces, nothing acidic. She has acid reflux. And sparkling water, room temperature."

He looked at me, his gaze passing over me as if I were furniture.

"And for her, the Seafood Risotto. It's the special. She loves rice."

The waiter nodded and left.

I sat very still. My hands were folded in my lap, knuckles white.

Dante turned to Isobel, continuing a story about the island.

"Dante," I said softly.

He didn't hear me. He was laughing at something Isobel said.

"Dante."

He looked at me, annoyed. "What?"

"I can't eat the risotto."

"Why not? You're always complaining about being hungry."

"It has shrimp stock," I said. "I'm allergic to shellfish."

The table went quiet.

Isobel covered her mouth, her eyes wide with fake sympathy. "Oh my god. You didn't know?"

Dante looked at me. Then he looked at the empty space where the waiter had been. His brow furrowed.

"Since when?" he asked.

"Since I was six," I said. "My throat closes up. I carry an EpiPen in my purse. You watched me use it once at the gala three years ago."

He blinked. I could see the memory trying to surface, but it was buried under layers of indifference.

He knew Isobel's acid reflux triggers. He knew her ovulation cycle. He knew her favorite flower.

But he didn't know his fiancée could die from a bowl of rice.

"I... I forgot," he muttered. He looked down at his napkin.

"It's fine," I said. "I'm not hungry anyway."

I pushed my chair back.

My phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out.

It was Julia.

I answered it right there at the table.

"Hello?"

"Nina," Julia said. Her voice was serious. "Final confirmation. The extraction team is set for the 20th. That's four days from now. You need to be at the airport by 6 AM. Once you enter the program, you disappear. No contacts. No trace."

I looked at Dante. He was pouring water for Isobel, making sure the ice didn't splash her.

I looked at the man I had loved for two decades. And in that moment, the last tether snapped. I felt absolutely nothing.

"I'm sure, Julia," I said.

"What about the husband?" she asked.

I looked him right in the eye.

"The wedding is cancelled," I said into the phone, my voice clear and loud. "I am leaving."

Dante's head snapped up.

"Who is leaving?" he asked.