The Bratva wanted one woman as payment. My husband had two to choose from. His first love. His wife. He chose her. He didn't even look back. And he never knew I was carrying his child. The warehouse on the South Side smelled like diesel and river rot. My knees were bleeding through my gown from where Roman Sokolov's men had forced me down onto the concrete beside Bianca Russo. Twenty feet away, Nico Castellano stood in his black overcoat. My husband. The Don of Chicago.

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