You Chose Her, Now Call Me Queen

I sat in a room waiting for my fiancé to set our wedding date, but instead, I received a video of him bleeding in a clinic. He wasn't there for me; he was paying the price for a blood-diamond purse he’d bought for a Mafia Princess named Lucia.

I had spent five years living in the shadow of his underground fights, constantly fearing the day he’d come home in a body bag. Today, he’d emptied our wedding fund to buy Lucia an armored car, leaving me with nothing but the chilling realization that I was merely a placeholder.

When I confronted him, he dismissed my pain, swearing it was just a debt of honor. He laughed off my threats to leave, convinced that my heart was too soft to ever truly walk away.

I watched as he prioritized Lucia's shrill demands over our future, his arrogance blind to the fact that my patience had finally turned to ash. I had survived his brawls and his lies, but I was done being collateral in a game I never asked to play.

How many times could I forgive a man who traded my life for another woman’s vanity? Why had I stayed so long, waiting for a man who didn't even know how to protect his own future?

I walked into the Syndicate clinic, not to nurse his wounds, but to reclaim my passport. I didn't look back as I signed the papers to disappear into a high-security black site in Iceland. I was finished with Ciro, the soldier who fought for everyone except the woman waiting for him in the dark.

Chapter 1

Gianna POV

I sat in a room where the candlelight struggled against the heavy damask curtains, waiting for the man I was to marry. He was meant to be finalizing our wedding date; instead, I received a video of him bleeding onto the sheets of a clandestine clinic bed.

The text that followed was from the Mafia Princess for whom he was, in fact, dying. She informed me he had just purchased a purse for her—one fashioned from blood diamonds, paid for with his winnings from an underground fight—and that I ought not trouble myself to claim his body.

If I did not extricate myself from the mire of his debts and brawls this very night, I would end up as collateral, a casualty in a grave dug for a common soldier.

Don Gabriel was a whisper in the underworld, a terrifying Boss who governed the Syndicate's legitimate international fronts with a cold, absolute precision.

His name alone could command a room to silence—a stark contrast to the chaotic, street-level savagery my fiancé seemed to relish.

I stared at the screen of my phone, its cold light swimming in my eyes and bleaching the room of all color.

I had tried to leave Ciro six times before because of Lucia.

Six times, he had dropped to his knees, his face a ruin of bruises and split skin, swearing a blood oath that he would stop fighting in unsanctioned death matches to fund her vanity.

My heart used to soften at the sight of his broken body, my empathy weaponized against me.

Today was supposed to be the day he met my parents to set our wedding date in stone.

I had waited in this private room from noon until the city's electric veins began to pulse to life behind the tall windows.

Ciro never showed.

At ten o'clock, my phone rang, displaying the name of Matteo—a fellow Soldier and Ciro's only true brother-in-arms.

I answered it, the silence heavy on my end.

Matteo's voice was tight with panic as he told me Ciro had been rushed to a Syndicate clinic after a brutal cage match.

I cut him off before he could launch into the apologies.

My voice was a dead thing, echoing off the expensive wallpaper as I informed him I already knew Ciro took this lethal risk for Lucia.

Matteo stammered, his guilt bleeding through the speaker. He explained that Lucia had demanded a purse fashioned from blood diamonds, one of a kind.

I could hear Lucia's entitled, shrill voice in the background of the call, complaining about the clinic's unflattering overhead lighting.

A profound weariness settled into my bones, a leaden blanket that made each breath a conscious effort.

I calmly told Matteo I was not coming to the clinic.

I declared my absolute separation from Ciro right then and there.

My mother sat across the table, letting out a soft, sorrowful sigh.

I had confessed the humiliating truth to her in a monotone—that Ciro was at this moment bleeding onto a clinic's sheets for the sake of a designer bag.

Her eyes were full of unwavering support as she reached out to cover my cold hand with hers.

She told me walking away was better than living a life of terror, waiting for a Soldier to come home in a body bag.

I escorted my parents out to their car, hugging them tightly before sending them home.

I remained in the empty VIP room to handle the final business of a life fractured beyond repair.

That was when Lucia sent the video.

In the short clip, Ciro was lying in a sterile clinic bed, his face a swollen, battered mess.

He slurred his words, looking off-camera at Lucia.

"Why are you crying? When have I ever broken a promise to get you what you want?"

The text from Lucia followed immediately, dripping with false sympathy and real malice.

"Ciro is awake, and he got me the bag. Don't be mad at him, and don't worry about him anymore."

I didn't reply.

I locked my screen, the darkness swallowing the image of the man I used to love.

I returned to the Syndicate-owned apartment Ciro and I shared, moving through the rooms like a ghost.

I pulled open the bottom drawer of the wardrobe to pack my life away.

My hand froze as my knuckles brushed against cold, cheap metal.

It was the blood-stained trophy Ciro had won in his first illegal death-match two years ago.

The memory washed over me, a suffocating wave of rain and despair.

I had discovered he was violating Omerta to fight in the pits, and I had broken down, demanding a split.

That night, in the pouring rain, Ciro had dragged his broken, bleeding body to my door.

His eyes were wild and feral as he collapsed unconscious at my feet, his blood staining my welcome mat.

Terrified of losing him, I had held him on the floor, a tremor running through me as the last of my conviction dissolved into a cold pool of fear.

My phone vibrated against my thigh, pulling me out of the cold memory.

It was Ciro.

I answered, placing the phone to my ear without saying a word.

He immediately started downplaying his severe injuries, his voice a ragged whisper, frayed by pain.

He claimed Matteo was just acting like a panicked Associate and that it was just a few scratches.

He asked if my parents were insulted by his absence.

I gave him a flat, emotionless "Yes."

Relieved by my lack of yelling, Ciro let out a ragged exhalation that was more shudder than sigh.

He then asked if we could delay the wedding for two years.

He casually mentioned Lucia wanted an armored luxury vehicle, and he had transferred our entire wedding fund to her account to secure it.

He tried to soothe me, reciting the same tired mantra I knew by heart.

Her Capo father had saved him from the streets, it was a blood debt he must repay, and he just viewed her as a sister.

I had zero desire to fight.

The fury that had burned in my chest for five years was suddenly starved of air, leaving only a fine, cold ash that stirred with each breath.

I stated coldly that he could do whatever he wanted.

Ciro's voice brightened, his arrogance blinding him to the reality of my tone.

He assumed my quietness meant I had surrendered and would never actually leave him.

I smiled to myself, a bitter, hollow curve of my lips.

I told him I wouldn't.

I told him I would never contend with him again—because there was nothing left to contend for.

Ciro turned solemn, his voice dropping an octave as he swore on his life that this was his final underground fight.

He promised me a grand Mafia wedding and swore I would never suffer again.

I listened in silence, his promises echoing in the hollow space where my faith in him used to reside.

Suddenly, Lucia's shrill, excited voice pierced the line.

She announced the armored car had been delivered to the clinic's rear entrance and demanded he come downstairs to see it.

Ciro's deep confession to me snapped shut instantly.

He switched to a doting, indulgent tone, murmuring that his battered body could not manage the stairs tonight, but promising to admire the vehicle the second he was discharged.

I ended the call.

Ciro was a street-rat fueled by a toxic vendetta of gratitude, and Lucia was the vine strangling the life from him, and he paid her toll in blood.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the stale air of the apartment one last time.

I dialed Dr. Wagner, the Consigliere-level surgeon who mentored me.

I asked him if the position at the Iceland extreme-trauma outpost was still open.

Dr. Wagner confirmed it was, his voice grave and serious.

He reminded me it was a high-security Syndicate black site overseen directly by Don Gabriel.

Once I entered, I could not return to the States for three years.

Without a single second of hesitation, I told him I would take it.

I informed him I was a free woman, and that my departure must be tonight. The word "free" settled on my tongue like a sliver of ice—cold, clean, and utterly irrevocable.