He Killed Love, She Killed His Empire

I was securing the diamond clasp of my necklace when the security monitor blinked to life, revealing my husband burying his face between his assistant's thighs.

Just an hour later, Dante Moretti stood by my side at the Gala, playing the part of the devoted Capo, while his mistress smirked at me from across the room in a dress that screamed for attention.

I wanted to leave. I had packed my bags, ready to disappear.

But then the doctor told me the news: I was six weeks pregnant with the Vitiello-Moretti heir.

I thought the baby might save us. I thought it would stop the madness.

I was wrong.

When his mistress accused me of betrayal to cover her own tracks, Dante didn't listen to his wife. He listened to the woman warming his bed.

In a blind rage, the man who swore to protect me struck me down.

I felt the sharp, tearing pain in my abdomen before I even hit the stone floor.

As blood stained my pristine white dress, I realized he hadn't just broken his vows.

He had killed our unborn son.

So, when the opportunity came to detonate the gas line and fake my own death, I didn't hesitate.

I let the world believe Seraphina Moretti died in that explosion.

Ten years later, I returned to a city that thought I was a ghost.

I dismantled his supply lines, froze his assets, and watched his empire crumble piece by piece.

And when he was finally on his knees in the rain, broken and destitute, I stepped out of the shadows.

I didn't come back for his money.

I came back to hand him the ultrasound photo of the child he murdered.

"Hello, Dante."