Traded To The Bratva: My Husband's Betrayal

Ninety-nine days. That was exactly how long it had been since my husband, Dante, traded my life to a Russian cartel just to save his mistress from a panic attack.

I walked onto the grounds of the Vitiello estate only to find him caressing her six-month-pregnant belly at my own funeral. He didn't look like a grieving widower; he looked like a man who had finally buried his mistake.

When I revealed I was alive, Dante didn't fall to his knees in relief. Instead, he protected Lucia. He believed her lies that I was insane, that I was a threat to his "heir."

To prove his loyalty to her, he stood by while my father whipped me in the family chapel until my back was in shreds. Then, he dragged me to the roof and threw me into a freezing pool, watching me drown simply because Lucia claimed I pushed her.

He didn't know Lucia was faking the pregnancy. He didn't know she was the one selling secrets to the Bratva. He broke his loyal wife to protect a traitor.

Now, six months later, he stands in the rain holding the Vitiello diamond necklace, begging me to come home. He thinks he can buy forgiveness.

But he doesn't see the man standing in the shadows behind me—the enforcer who took a bullet for me when Dante was busy breaking my bones.

I looked at the diamonds, then at my husband.

"I don't want a King," I whispered. "I chose the soldier."

Chapter 1

Ninety-nine days.

That was exactly how long it had been since my husband traded my life to a Russian cartel to save his mistress from a panic attack.

Now, ninety-nine days later, I walked onto the grounds of the Vitiello estate to find him caressing her six-month-pregnant belly at my own funeral.

The rain fell in unforgiving sheets, masking the sharp *clack* of my heels against the wet pavement. I stood at the fringe of the mourning crowd, a ghost wrapped in a trench coat, watching the performance play out.

It was a closed casket, naturally. There was nothing to put inside it.

Lucia stood by the grave, dabbing at dry eyes with a silk handkerchief, playing the grieving friend to perfection. And Dante Moretti, the man I had vowed to love until my last breath, looked somber—but not broken. He didn't look like a widower; he looked like a man who had finally buried his mistakes.

I shouldn’t be here. By all accounts, I should be rotting in a ditch on the outskirts of St. Petersburg.

But hate is a powerful fuel. It burns hotter than the Bratva’s vodka and hits harder than their fists.

I stepped forward. The sea of black umbrellas parted as if sliced by a blade. The silence that descended over the cemetery was heavier than the thunder rolling overhead.

Dante looked up. His eyes, usually the color of warm amber, went wide. The blood drained from his face so fast it