He Chose The Mistress, I Chose Freedom

Dante Moretti POV:

The sharp sound of a glass shattering broke the spell.

Someone in the back had dropped a tumbler of whiskey.

I looked at Sofia.

I really looked at her.

For years, I had seen a fragile bird that needed protection. I had seen the daughter of a hero.

Now, I saw a viper.

I saw the woman who had twisted my honor into a noose.

Who had turned me against my own wife.

Who had made me sacrifice my own flesh and blood.

My son was dead because of her.

Elena was gone because of her.

"Dante," Sofia whimpered, reaching for me with trembling hands. "Baby, please. It's a setup. The Russians..."

I didn't speak.

I picked up the medical report. The paper that detailed the death of a child that wasn't mine.

I crumbled it into a tight ball in my fist.

Then I moved.

It wasn't a conscious decision. It was an instinct. A primal need to destroy the threat standing before me.

I backhanded her.

My knuckles connected with her cheekbone with a sickening crunch.

The force of the blow lifted her clean off her feet.

She flew backward, crashing violently into the wedding cake.

White frosting and red blood splattered across the pristine tablecloth.

She hit the floor hard.

The room gasped.

Sofia screamed, clutching her face.

"My baby!" she wailed. "You hurt the baby!"

"That is not my baby!" I bellowed.

My voice tore through my throat, raw and ruined.

"That is a rat's bastard!"

I walked around the table.

I loomed over her like the executioner I was.

She looked up at me, terror in her eyes. For the first time, she was truly afraid.

"I gave you everything," I said, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I gave you my protection. I gave you my home. I gave you my wife's dignity."

I kicked the table leg next to her head.

She flinched violently.

"And you laughed at me. You called me a dog."

"Dante, please..."

"You made me kill my son," I said. The words tasted like ash and bile. "You made me choose a traitor over my wife."

I looked at my men.

"Take her," I ordered.

Two soldiers stepped forward immediately. They grabbed Sofia by her arms and hauled her up.

She screamed and kicked, her heels scraping uselessly against the floor.

"Dante! I love you! It was Sergei! He forced me!"

"Take her to the basement," I said, my eyes never leaving hers. "Keep her alive. I want the Russian to hear her scream before I find him."

They dragged her out.

Her screams faded down the hallway, swallowed by the heavy oak doors.

I stood alone in the center of the wreckage.

The cake was destroyed. The party was over.

I looked down at the divorce papers still sitting on the table.

Elena Falcone.

She had signed it.

She had told me the truth.

And she had left.

I grabbed the papers and ran.

I ran out of the ballroom, past the stunned guests, past the security.

I burst out into the cool night air.

"Get the car!" I shouted at my driver. "The airport! Now!"

"Boss?"

"New York!" I screamed. "We're going to New York!"

I had to find her.

I had to tell her I knew.

I had to beg.

I would crawl over broken glass from Chicago to Long Island if I had to.

But as I climbed into the car, a text message pinged on my phone.

It was from Rocco Falcone.

Elena's brother.

It was a picture.

A picture of the Villa gates burning.

And a message:

Cross the state line, Moretti, and I will send you back in pieces. She is gone.

I dropped the phone.

I leaned my head back against the seat and let out a scream that tore the night apart.

I was the King of Chicago.

But I was a pauper.

Because I had just realized that the only thing worth ruling was the heart of the woman I had destroyed.