I Was Never His Real Wife

My little brother’s heart monitor was screaming its final warning. I called my husband, Dante Volkov, the ruthless underworld king whose life I’d saved years ago. He had promised to send his elite medical team. “I’m handling an emergency,” he snapped, then hung up. An hour later, my brother was dead. I found out what Dante’s “emergency” was from his mistress’s social media. He had sent his team of world-class surgeons to deliver her cat’s kittens. My brother died for a litter of cats. When Dante finally called, he didn't even apologize. I could hear her voice in the background, asking him to come back to bed. He even forgot my brother was dead, offering to buy him a new toy to replace the one his mistress deliberately crushed. This was the man who had promised to protect me, to make my high school tormentors pay. Now, he was holding that very tormentor, Seraphina, in his arms. Then came the final blow: a call from the clerk's office revealed our seven-year marriage was a sham. The certificate was a forgery. I was never his wife. I was just a possession he was tired of. After he left me to die in a car crash for Seraphina, I made one call. I texted a rival mob heir I hadn't spoken to in years: "I need to disappear. I'm calling it in." Chapter 1 Elara POV: The ninety-ninth time I called my husband, my little brother’s heart monitor was screaming its final warning. “He’s crashing,” I told the nurse, my voice a raw, broken thing. “Please, you have to do something.” She just shook her head, her face a mask of pity. “We don’t have the equipment, Ms. Moretti. Or the specialists. You said your husband’s team was on its way.” I nodded numbly, hitting redial. My husband, Dante Volkov. The gutter wolf I’d found bleeding out in an alley seven years ago. The man I’d nursed back to health in my tiny slum apartment. The man who clawed his way to the top of New York’s underworld, building his own brutal organization from scratch. He was a *Boss*, a king, and his private medical team was the best in the country—a resource only a man like him could command. And they were supposed to be here. The call connected. “What?” Dante’s voice was sharp, impatient. “It’s Luca,” I begged, the words tearing from my throat. “He’s dying, Dante. Where is the team? You promised.” “I’m handling an emergency,” he clipped out. “They’re tied up.” “What emergency could be more important than this?” I cried, my gaze fixed on the jagged red line on Luca’s monitor. It was faltering, dipping dangerously low. “Stop being so dramatic, Elara.” He sighed, a sound of pure annoyance. Then he hung up. I stared at the dead screen. He’d hung up. I tried to call back. The call wouldn’t go through. He’d blocked my number. A long, single tone cut through the air. Flat. Final. The sound of the world ending. Luca’s hand, so small and fragile in mine, went still. The warmth began to fade. My phone slipped from my fingers and clattered to the linoleum floor. My brother was gone. Numbness was a cold blanket, wrapping around me. I don’t know how long I sat there, just holding his hand. An hour later, my phone buzzed on the floor. A social media notification. Mindlessly, I picked it up. It was a post from Seraphina Gallo. A woman from my past I desperately wanted to forget. Dante’s new… friend. The picture showed her prized Persian cat, surrounded by a litter of tiny, perfect kittens. Dante was in the photo, too, smiling softly as he stroked one of the kittens with his finger. The same finger that wore the wedding ring I’d given him. Seraphina’s caption read: *“A scary night, but my baby is a mommy! A huge thank you to the best vets in the world for the emergency delivery! And to my D for making it happen. ”* In the background of the photo, I could see them. Dr. Alistair and his team. Dante’s private medical unit. His “emergency.” A laugh bubbled up in my throat, a hysterical, ugly sound. My brother was dead. My sweet, gentle Luca, who suffered from a rare, aggressive cancer, was dead because Dante Volkov’s mistress needed a team of world-class surgeons to deliver her cat’s kittens. The world didn’t just end. It shattered into a million tiny, sharp pieces. My fingers moved on their own, scrolling through my contacts until they found a name I hadn’t spoken in years. Alessandro De Luca. An old acquaintance from high school, the heir to the powerful De Luca *Family*. He’d offered me help once, long ago, and I’d refused. But he’d left me with a promise, a marker. *“If you ever need anything, I owe you.”* My text was simple. *I need to disappear. I’m calling it in.* The reply came back in less than a minute. *“Charles de Gaulle Airport. One month.”* A lifeline. A way out of the ashes. I looked back at the photo on my screen. At Dante’s gentle smile, a smile he hadn’t given me in years. He was erasing me. He was erasing *us*. I remembered the day he’d carried me over the threshold of our first real home, a fortress he’d built for us. “Our home,” he’d whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “A place where no one can ever hurt you again.” A lie. All of it. Two weeks ago was our anniversary. He forgot. A quick search of Seraphina’s private blog, a password I’d figured out months ago, showed me why. He’d been with her. In the Maldives. I finally let go of Luca’s hand. I collapsed onto the cold floor, the sobs tearing through me, raw and silent. My world was gone. And a new one, built on a single, cold purpose, was about to begin. Vendetta.