Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved.

He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again.

"Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports.

For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian.

In return, he treated me like furniture.

He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste.

I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home.

So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco.

I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage.

But I underestimated Dante.

When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat.

He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

Chapter 1

Elena Vitiello POV

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved.

He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half the criminal underworld in New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again.

"Done," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion.

That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. The Reaper. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports.

I sat across from Mia in the high-security cafe, watching the rain streak against the bulletproof glass. My hands were folded in my lap, perfectly still. I was trained to be still. I was the Caged Canary, the silent Moretti wife.

"He signed them?" Mia whispered, her eyes wide with horror and a twisted sort of impressed disbelief. "Just like that?"

"He was distracted," I said softly. "Sofia was having a crisis about a broken heel or a chipped nail. I don't remember which."

Mia slammed her coffee cup down. "He is a monster, Elena. A blind, arrogant monster. You've been scrubbing his blood out of his shirts for three years. You saved his family's alliance when that little brat ran off with a civilian. And he treats you like furniture."

"Furniture is useful," I corrected her, taking a sip of my tea. It tasted like ash. "I am less than that. I am merely ornamental. A placeholder."

I looked out the window. A convoy of black armored SUVs glided to a precision halt at the curb. The pedestrians scattered like pigeons. They knew that formation. They knew who was inside.

Dante Moretti didn't just walk into a room; he conquered it. He was the most lethal predator in the city, a man who had taken over the New York Outfit's enforcement division at twenty-two and turned it into a machine of absolute terror. He had killed men for looking at me the wrong way, yet he couldn't look at me himself.

"He's here," I said.

Mia reached for my hand. "Do you have the exit plan?"

"San Francisco," I breathed. "Isabella secured the apartment. The flight is in two weeks. Until then, I play the part."

The cafe door opened. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop. Two soldiers walked in first, scanning the perimeter with cold, dead eyes. Then Dante entered.

He was wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than this building. His dark hair was swept back, revealing a face that was beautiful in the way a thunderstorm is beautiful-destructive and captivating. He walked straight to my table, ignoring everyone else.

"Elena," he said. It wasn't a greeting. It was a command.

"Dante," I replied, standing up smoothly.

"We are leaving. My mother expects us for dinner."

He didn't look at Mia. He turned and walked out, expecting me to follow. I always followed.

I gave Mia a small, sad smile and walked into the rain. A soldier held an umbrella over me, but Dante was already inside the SUV. I slid onto the leather seat beside him. The car smelled of expensive cologne, gun oil, and the faint, cloying scent of vanilla perfume.

Sofia's perfume.

The convoy started moving. The silence in the car was heavy, suffocating. Dante was typing on his phone, his brow furrowed.

"That file I signed weeks ago," he said suddenly, not looking up. "The vendor contract for the shipping lines. Did you file it?"

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Yes," I lied. "It's being processed."

He hummed, a low vibration in his chest. "Good. I don't want any loose ends before the transition."

He was becoming Don soon. He wanted a clean slate. I was giving him the cleanest slate possible-a life without me.

His phone rang. The ringtone was specific. It pierced the quiet like a siren.

Dante answered immediately. "Sofia."

I looked out the window, counting the raindrops.

"Slow down," Dante said, his voice shifting from cold command to something softer, something urgent. "Where are you? Who is there?"

He listened for a moment, his jaw tightening. The temperature in the car dropped ten degrees.

"I don't care who his father is," Dante snarled into the phone. "If he touched you, he loses the hand. Stay there. I'm coming."

He hung up. He tapped the partition glass. "Change of plans. Go to the Meatpacking District."

"Dante," I said quietly. "Your mother."

He finally looked at me. His eyes were like ice, blue and impenetrable. "Sofia is in trouble. Some street trash cornered her."

"She is a Capo's daughter," I said, my voice steady. "She has her own guards."

"She called me," he said, as if that explained everything. As if that justified stranding his wife in the middle of the city.

The car pulled over to the curb. It wasn't the estate. It was a street corner five blocks from our home.

"Take the second car back," Dante ordered. "I need the team with me."

He was kicking me out. To go save the woman who had left him at the altar, the woman whose mess I had cleaned up for three years.

I opened the door. The rain was coming down harder now.

"Dante," I said, pausing with one foot on the pavement. "You signed the papers."

He looked at me, impatient, his mind already on her. "I know, Elena. You told me."

"I just wanted to make sure you remembered," I said.

I stepped out. The door slammed shut behind me, and the convoy sped away, tires spraying dirty water onto my shoes. I stood there for a moment, watching the taillights disappear, realizing that for the first time in three years, I didn't feel the sting of tears. I just felt cold.