The Unwanted Wife He Broke In Rain

My husband, the ruthless Don of Chicago, forced me to kneel in the freezing mud to apologize to his mistress.

He believed her fake tears over my dignity.

While the icy rain soaked through my dress, a sharp, jagged cramp seized my body. I screamed for him, begging for help as I felt the life slipping out of me.

But Dante didn't move. He just lit a cigarette, his eyes cold as steel.

"Get up when you are ready to learn respect," he said.

He walked inside with her, locking the door and leaving me to bleed out in the storm.

I lost the baby that night. The doctors told me the damage was permanent—I was barren.

I thought that was the bottom, but I was wrong. When I returned to the estate, a ghost in my own home, he threw me into a flooded cellar full of rats because Elena accused me of poisoning her son.

He tortured me for days to protect a child that wasn't even his.

That was the moment the love died.

So, while he was away on business, I didn't just pack a bag. I executed a plan three years in the making.

I vanished.

But before I disappeared, I left him a gift on his desk. A USB drive containing the security footage of Elena’s lies, the medical report of the miscarriage he caused, and a paternity test proving he had destroyed his true family for a stranger's bastard.

By the time he fell to his knees screaming my name, I was already gone.

Chapter 1

My knees slammed into the freezing mud, the impact sending a jolt through my body that threatened the fragile, secret life growing inside me. All because the man I loved—the ruthless Don of Chicago—decided his mistress's tears were worth more than my dignity.

The rain in Chicago was never just water. It was industrial runoff, cold as iron and heavy as judgment. It soaked through my thin silk dress in seconds, plastering the fabric to my shivering skin like a second, suffocating layer.

I kept my hands hovered protectively over my flat stomach, a futile attempt to shield the two-month-old secret nestled there from the biting wind.

Dante Moretti stood on the covered veranda of the estate. He was dry. He was warm. He was the Reaper, the Capo dei Capi, a man who had slaughtered the entire Russian Bratva leadership in a single night to consolidate his power.

He was also my husband.

Ten years ago, my parents took bullets meant for him. They bled out on the asphalt so the young prince could live to become the King. He had taken me in, the grieving orphan, and promised to burn the world to keep me safe. Three years ago, he defied the Commission to marry me.

Now, he looked at me like I was a stain on his floor.

"Kneel, Sera," he had said. His voice was low, that terrifying baritone that usually made my