The Rival Don's Treasured Second Chance

My husband, the King of New York's underworld, declined my call for the ninety-ninth time just as my brother's heart monitor flatlined.

He claimed he was in a life-or-death sit-down with the Commission.

But moments after my brother took his last breath, I saw his mistress's Instagram post.

The "meeting" was an emergency C-section for her Persian cat.

My brother was dead because a mistress's pet needed the surgeon Dante had promised to send for him.

The betrayal didn't stop there.

When our car was T-boned days later, Dante didn't pull me from the wreckage.

He carried his mistress to safety, screaming for paramedics to save his "fiancée," leaving me trapped in the burning vehicle with crushed legs.

Miraculously, I survived.

Lying in the hospital bed, I waited for an apology. Instead, I got a threat.

"Without me, you are nothing," Dante sneered, throwing a box of chocolates at me like I was a dog.

But the final blow came from the County Clerk.

When I tried to file for divorce, they told me no record existed.

Seven years of loyalty. Seven years of standing by his side. And I wasn't even his wife. I was just a possession he had tricked into playing house.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

I picked up my phone and scrolled past Dante's name to the one man he feared most: his rival, Alessandro De Luca.

I typed three words.

I need extraction.

It was time to burn his kingdom to the ground.

Chapter 1

The steady rhythm of the heart monitor flatlined into a piercing shriek just as my husband, the most feared Boss of the Volkov crime family, declined my call for the ninety-ninth time.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Volkov," the nurse said, her voice trembling not out of sadness, but from the sheer terror of the name on the paperwork. "We do not have the equipment to stabilize him. His lungs... they are collapsing. We need the ECMO unit from the private clinic. We need Dr. Alistair."

I looked at Luca. My brother. My only blood. He was drowning in his own body, his skin the translucent grey of old parchment.

I dialed again.

Dante Volkov was a man who would torch a city block simply because someone looked at me sideways. He was the King of New York, a man whose name brought grown men to their knees. He had promised me, on the day we exchanged rings, that my family was his family. That we were untouchable.

The line clicked open.

"Elara." Dante's voice was deep, rough, and laced with cold irritation. "I told you. I am in a sit-down with the Commission. Do not call again."

"It's Luca," I choked out, gripping the cold metal of the bed rail until my knuckles turned white. "He's dying, Dante. The hospital can't handle it. I need Alistair. I need the transport. Please. You promised."

There was a pause. I heard the distinct clink of crystal glass in the background.