The Unwanted Fiancée Is A Legend

For three years, I played the role of the submissive, boring fiancée to pay off a blood debt.

My mother gave her kidney to save the Moretti Matriarch, and in return, I was promised to Dante, the heir. A life for a life.

I cleaned his estate and wore his ring while he treated me like furniture.

But my silence only bought me humiliation.

Dante didn't just cheat; he brought his mistress, Roxy, into our home for dinner.

He called me a "glorified housekeeper" on a recording and then broke our engagement via an Instagram post, tagging me to ensure the entire underworld saw my shame.

When I went to return the family crest, they wanted a show.

Roxy mocked me in front of Dante’s soldiers, snatched my mother’s antique jade pendant—the only thing I had left of her—and shattered it on the dirty club floor.

Dante laughed, thinking I was helpless.

They thought I was a hothouse flower who would faint at the smell of exhaust.

They didn't know the "boring" girl had a racing license hidden under the floorboards.

They didn't know I was "Ghost," the legendary underground racer they all bet on.

Roxy handed me a spectator ticket to the Death Race, telling me to watch how the big boys play.

I took the ticket, but I didn't go to the stands.

I walked to the starting line, put on my helmet, and decimated the track record.

When I took off that helmet in the winner's circle, Dante’s face went pale.

And when Lorenzo Falcone, the most dangerous man in the city, stepped out of the shadows to wipe the blood from my hand and claim me as his own, Dante realized the truth.

He hadn't just lost a fiancée.

He had signed his own death warrant.

Chapter 1

Seraphina Vitiello POV

The audio file attached to the anonymous text was only ten seconds long, but it was enough to bury three years of my life in a shallow grave.

I stood in the center of the expansive gourmet kitchen, the marble countertop leeching the warmth from my palms.

Outside, the Chicago winter was stripping the trees bare, a stark visual echo of the desolation spreading through my chest.

I pressed play.

Dante’s voice filled the silent room, distorted by background noise but sickeningly unmistakable.

"She is just a glorified housekeeper, Roxy. A debt my mother owes hers. You think I touch her? She is as cold as a nun and twice as boring. You are the fire I need."

The recording ended with the wet, sloppy sound of a kiss and Roxy’s high-pitched giggle.

My hand didn't shake.

I didn't throw the phone.

I simply set it down next to the tray of antipasto I had spent two hours arranging with surgical precision.

Prosciutto, melon, imported olives, and the specific aged provolone he liked.

For three years, I had been the perfect fiancée.

The dutiful Vitiello daughter fulfilling a Blood Debt.

My mother gave her kidney to save the Moretti Matriarch, and in return, I was promised to the heir.

A life for a life.

A womb for a womb.

I had worn their ring, cleaned their estate, and kept my mouth shut while the soldiers whispered that I was nothing more than a piece of furniture.

The aggressive snarl of a high-performance engine cut through the silence.

I looked out the window.

A cherry-red Ferrari 488 Spider roared up the driveway, tires screeching on the asphalt.

It was flashy.

It was loud.

It was everything a true Underboss should not be.

Dante Moretti stepped out, wearing a suit that cost more than my father’s house.

He wasn't alone.

A woman with bleached blonde hair and a skirt that barely covered her thighs slid out of the passenger seat.

Roxy.

She was a "cleat chaser"—a groupie who haunted the underground racing circuits, hoping to snag a Capo with deep pockets.

Dante grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against him right there in the open driveway, where the security team and the gardeners could see.

He kissed her, deep and hard, his hand sliding down to squeeze her backside.

It was a blatant violation of Omertà.

Family business is private.

Disrespect is never public.

He was spitting on the contract, on my mother’s sacrifice, and on me.

I watched them separate, laughing as they walked toward the front door.

I smoothed the front of my modest grey dress.

I checked the bun at the nape of my neck to ensure not a hair was out of place.

The front door slammed open.

Dante’s voice carried through the hallway, arrogant and loud.

"Seraphina. Dinner better be ready. I’m starving."

He walked into the kitchen, Roxy trailing behind him, smacking gum in her mouth.

He didn't even look at me.

He walked straight to the wine fridge, pulling out a bottle of vintage Barolo I had been saving for his father’s birthday.

"This is Roxy," he said, popping the cork. "She’s staying for dinner. Set another plate."

Roxy looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my high neckline and lack of makeup.

She smirked.

"So this is the little wifey? She looks like she’s ready for a funeral."

Dante laughed, pouring the wine into two glasses.

He didn't offer me one.

"She knows her place," he said, taking a sip. "Don't you, Seraphina?"

I looked at the man I was supposed to marry.

I looked at the woman he brought into our home.

I looked at the tray of food prepared with hands that knew how to strip a Glock in fifteen seconds and drift a skyline around a hairpin turn at a hundred miles an hour.

"Yes, Dante," I said softly.

I turned to the cupboard to get a plate.

But as I reached for the porcelain, my fingers brushed against the cold steel of the carving knife on the counter.

I didn't pick it up.

Not yet.