"I was ready to divorce my wife and give her $20 million until I overheard her crying to her mother: 'I love him too much to stay out of pity.' But when her mother revealed what Alina sacrificed to save my life on our wedding night, my blood turned to ice."

I didn't call my capos. I didn't summon the syndicate council. In our world, a leak at the top meant immediate execution, and until I knew exactly how deep Julian’s betrayal ran, I trusted no one except my lead enforcer, Marco, and Dr. Harrison—the top toxicologist in the Midwest, whom I had brought in under heavy armed guard from Chicago General.

Inside the primary medical suite on the second floor, Dr. Harrison reviewed the blood panels he had drawn from Alina while I stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, my arms crossed over my chest, staring out at the rain-soaked gardens.

“It’s a specialized neuro-vascular toxin, Boss,” Dr. Harrison explained, his voice hushed as he pointed to the dark digital scans on his tablet. “It’s synthesized from black nightshade and heavy metals. It doesn't kill immediately; it creates a slow, systemic arterial degradation over three to four years. It mimics chronic autoimmune failure.”

I turned around slowly. “Can you cure it?”

Harrison hesitated, pulling at his collar. “If we had the original molecular formula used by the chemist who synthesized it, yes. A targeted chelation therapy could reverse ninety percent of the organ damage within two months. But without the original compound formula… we’re just fighting a losing battle against time. She has six months, maybe less, before her kidneys collapse.”

Six months.

The words struck my chest like an iron sledgehammer.

I walked past the doctor, pushing open the double doors into our private master bedroom.

Alina was sitting propped up against a mountain of white pillows, wearing a soft ivory sweater. A cup of steaming chamomile tea sat untouched on her nightstand. Beside her bed stood a fresh vase filled with two dozen long-stemmed white roses.

When she saw me enter, a small, fragile smile touched her pale lips.

“Did the doctor give you bad news?” she asked softly, reaching out her hand toward me.

I walked over, sitting on the edge of the mattress, and took her hand in mine. I brought her fingers to my lips, kissing each knuckle with a reverent, desperate tenderness.

“He gave me a deadline,” I answered truthfully, my voice rough. “Which means I have six months to find Julian, rip the antidote out of his throat, and bring it back to you.”

Alina’s smile faltered, her hazel eyes filling with fresh worry. She sat up slightly, her grip tightening on my fingers.

“Dante, Julian isn't acting alone,” she whispered, leaning closer so her warm breath brushed against my jaw. “On our wedding night, when he cornered me near the eastern garden gates, he wasn't just running away. He showed me a ledger. He had signed agreements with three members of your own executive board. They backed his coup because they thought you were too ruthless, too uncontrollable. They wanted a puppet leader.”

My jaw tightened until the bone burned.

My brother hadn't just betrayed me; he had conspired with my own inner circle to turn my wife into a quiet, dying hostage while I spent three years defending their territories from rival families.

“Names, Alina,” I commanded softly, stroking her thumb. “Give me the names.”

“Sal Moretti,” she murmured, referring to my father’s youngest brother and current chief financial officer of the Moretti Group. “And the Valenti brothers.”

A cold, dark satisfaction settled into my stomach.

Sal Moretti had been the one who handed me the twenty-seven pages of divorce papers three days ago, slapping my shoulder and saying, “It’s for the best, Dante. A boss needs a strong wife, not a sickly bird. Let her go back to her father.”

He hadn't been offering uncle advice. He had been clearing the board so that when Alina finally died from the poison, no one would ask questions about her medical records.