My Kidney For His Mistress: Never Again
I woke up from surgery with a jagged scar on my side and a missing kidney.
My fiancé, Dante Moretti, the Capo of the Chicago Outfit, hadn't saved me from an illness. He had harvested me like spare parts to save his mistress, Sofia.
"She pays the tithe," he had told the surgeon coldly while I was paralyzed by anesthesia.
For ten years, I was his loyal shadow. I managed his legitimate empire, took bullets for him, and even aborted our child three years ago because Sofia threw a tantrum about bloodlines.
I thought my absolute loyalty would eventually earn his love.
But when the Cartel held us both over the edge of a bridge days later, Dante didn't choose me.
He tackled Sofia to safety and watched as I fell backward into the freezing black river.
He thought I drowned. Or worse, he assumed I was a dog that would eventually swim back to its master, no matter how hard he kicked it.
He was wrong.
I dragged myself out of that water, but the woman who loved him died in the depths.
Seven days later, I didn't return to the Moretti penthouse.
I walked straight into the headquarters of his mortal enemy, Enzo Falcone.
"Do you still want to marry me?" I asked the man who wanted Dante’s head on a spike.
Enzo didn't hesitate. "I will burn the city down before I let him touch you again."
Now, Dante is crawling at my gates, paralyzed and ruined, holding a medical box containing my stolen kidney.
But he forgot one thing: I don't want it back.
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Chapter 3
The penthouse was silent, a gleaming mausoleum of glass and steel.
I didn't cry. I think I had left the last of my tears on the clinic floor. Instead, I moved with a cold, mechanical efficiency.
I pulled a suitcase from the closet. I didn't pack the designer clothes Dante had bought me. I didn't pack the jewelry, cold diamonds meant to buy silence.
I packed my jeans, my comfortable sweaters, and my passport.
At the bottom of a drawer, buried under layers of unworn silk scarves, my hand brushed against soft cotton.
I froze.
I pulled it out. A yellow baby onesie.
It was three years old. I had bought it the day I found out I was pregnant. Before Dante told me it was "inconvenient."
Before he told me Sofia was "sensitive" about children because she couldn't conceive.
Before he drove me to the clinic and waited in the car, checking his watch, while they scraped his heir out of me.
I held the small piece of fabric to my nose. It smelled of lavender and dead dreams.
I walked to the kitchen and dropped it into the trash compactor. I pressed the button.
The grinding noise shattered the silence. It was the most satisfying sound I had heard in years.
Next, I drove to Moretti Headquarters.
The sentinels at the front desk straightened up when I walked in. "Miss Elena. The Don isn't here."
"I know," I said.
I walked into my office-the office next to Dante's. I placed my key card, my company phone, and the encrypted tablet that held the secrets of the entire Chicago underworld on the desk.
I wrote a single note on official letterhead:
I resign. Effective immediately.
I walked out.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Dante.
"Where are you?" he demanded. No hello. No apology for the ball.
"I'm leaving, Dante," I said, my voice steady. "I resigned."
"Don't be childish," he snapped. "I know you're upset about last night. Sofia had a rejection episode. It was life or death."
"It's always life or death with her," I said. "Did you pick up the ring?"
"What?"
"The ring you dropped on the floor. Did you pick it up, or did the cleaners sweep it away with the trash?"
"Elena, stop this. I'm busy. I'll see you at home tonight."
"Feed me, Dante," a soft, mewling voice came from his end of the line. "I want the grapes."
Dante covered the phone, but not well enough. "Just a second, cara."
He came back on the line, impatience clipping his tone. "We'll talk later."
He hung up.
I checked Instagram. There it was. A photo posted two minutes ago on Sofia's account. Dante's hand, recognizable by the signet ring, holding a peeled grape to her lips.
Caption: My King always takes care of me.
I blocked her account.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang again. It was Matteo.
"Elena, you need to come to the hospital. Now."
"I'm not coming, Matteo. I'm done."
"It's Dante," Matteo said, his voice tight with panic. "He was leaving the hospital to come find you. He realized you weren't bluffing. A drive-by. He took two in the chest. He's bleeding out."
My hand gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. "He has guards."
"They missed the shooter. He needs blood, Elena. He's B-negative. The hospital is low on supply. Sofia refused."
I laughed. A dry, humorless sound that scraped my throat. "Of course she did."
"She said she's too weak from the surgery. The surgery you gave her a kidney for. Elena, please. He will die."
I should have let him die. It would have been poetic justice.
But the old Elena, the stupid girl who had loved him for ten years, wasn't quite dead yet. She gave a final, pathetic kick against my ribs.
"I'm coming," I said.
I drove to the hospital. I walked past the guards. I sat in the chair next to his unconscious body.
I let the nurse stick a needle into my arm, drawing the life out of me to pump it into him.
My vision blurred. I was still recovering. I was anemic.
"That's enough," the nurse said, looking worried. "You're going to pass out."
"Take it," I whispered, watching my red blood flow through the tube. "Take it all. This is the last thing he ever gets from me."
The world went black before the bag was full.