THE MAFIA KING’S FAKE FIANCÉE: A DEBT OF BLOOD AND SILENCE

“I asked you a question, Dante.” I took a step back, clutching the yellow train ticket to my chest. “Did you know about this?”

Dante did not reach for the ticket. He stared at it as if it were a live grenade. “I knew your father was investigating the Volkov family’s import routes six years ago. I did not know he was planning to run.”

“He wasn't running,” I fired back, my voice trembling with a sudden, protective rage. “My father never ran from anything. If Alexei Volkov bought this ticket, it wasn't a gift. It was a threat. A forced exile.”

Dante’s jaw tightened. “And two days later, he was diagnosed with terminal stage-four pancreatic cancer. A disease that moves fast. But not that fast.”

The implication hit me like a physical blow. I stumbled backward until my hips hit the edge of the leather sofa. “No. The doctors said it was natural. They ran tests.”

“Doctors in Chicago have debts, Mara. Especially at the clinics that treat beat cops with bad insurance.” Dante’s voice was devoid of pity, offering only brutal reality. “The Volkovs specialize in untraceable chemical toxins. They didn't just exile your father. They silenced him.”

My knees gave out. I sank onto the sofa, staring at the badge. My father hadn't died of bad luck. He had been murdered, slowly and agonizingly, while I sat by his bed and watched him waste away.

“We will find the truth,” Dante said, kneeling in front of me so we were eye-to-level. His large hands enveloped my shaking fingers. “I swear this to you on my family name. But right now, you have to put this away. We have an appearance to make.”

An hour later, I was walking into the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel, wearing a floor-length black silk gown that felt like armor. This was the annual Syndicate Gala, a neutral ground where Chicago’s deadliest families gathered to drink champagne and pretend they weren't plotting each other's downfalls.

Dante kept me tucked firmly against his side. Every eye in the room tracked us. Whispers followed our footsteps.

“Smile,” Dante murmured against my temple. “Let them see the emerald. Let them see you are completely unafraid.”

I forced a smile, lifting my chin. But the performance shattered when I saw her.

Isabella stood near the ice sculpture, wearing a crimson dress that screamed for attention. She looked at me, her blue eyes sharp with venom, and purposefully walked straight toward the ladies’ powder room, throwing a glance over her shoulder to ensure I was watching.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Dante.

“Mara, don't.”

“I have to. If I hide from her, they’ll all see I’m weak.”

I slipped away from his grip and pushed through the heavy oak doors of the powder room. The space was lined with gold-framed mirrors and smelled of expensive lilies. Isabella was waiting, leaning against the marble counter.

She didn't attack. She didn't scream. Instead, she picked up a crystal champagne flute from a tray and held it out to me with a pitying smile.

“Drink up, Cinderella,” Isabella purred. “You look like you need it.”

“I don't want anything from you,” I said, keeping my distance.

Isabella took a sip of her own glass. “You think you’ve won, don't you? You think you’re a mafia queen because Dante put his grandmother's ring on your finger. Do you honestly believe he chose you because you warned him about the Russians?”

“He chose me because I’m not a traitor,” I shot back.

Isabella laughed, a brittle, ugly sound. “Oh, sweet, naive Mara. Dante doesn't pick up strays out of gratitude. He picks them up out of guilt. He’s paying off his father’s sins.”

“I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“Don't you?” Isabella set her glass down, her eyes flashing with cruel triumph. “Ask Dante about the night your mother died. Ask him whose black Cadillac ran her sedan off the bridge twenty years ago.”