He Spent His Wedding Night With His Mistress, but the Ring His Bride Left Behind Cost Him an Empire

The rain had returned to Rhode Island by nightfall, slicking the cobblestone streets of historic downtown Providence.

A sleek black sedan pulled up quietly behind an old brick brownstone near the university district. Dante stepped out into the damp mist, pulling his dark coat close around his neck. Beside him, Marco and two armed security men checked their weapons in the shadows of the alleyway.

“She’s on the third floor, Boss,” Marco whispered. “She’s been staying in a short-term luxury apartment registered under her sister’s name.”

“Stay outside,” Dante ordered. “I’m going up alone.”

“Boss, if she’s working with federal informants—”

“She won't harm me,” Dante said coldly. “Stay at the door.”

Dante walked up the narrow iron fire escape, his boots making no sound against the wet metal. He reached the third-floor window, where a soft light flickered behind thick velvet curtains.

The window was unlocked. Dante slid it open quietly and stepped into the warm, lavender-scented living room.

Prudence Vale was sitting at a glass desk, her laptop open, a glass of red wine sitting beside a stack of printed legal documents. She was typing rapidly, her face illuminated by the harsh blue glare of the monitor.

“You always did prefer the window to the front door,” Prudence said without turning around.

Dante stopped five feet behind her chair.

“You called the Maritime Commission,” Dante said flatly.

Prudence stopped typing. She took a slow sip of her wine, then turned her chair around to face him. She wore a dark silk sweater, her dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders, but her eyes were red-rimmed and hollowed by exhaustion.

“I gave them the manifests for the Boston shipments,” Prudence admitted, her voice dripping with bitter satisfaction. “The manifests I helped Wendell hide three months ago when your father was still alive.”

Dante’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You are trying to destroy the Rinaldi organization, Prudence. You know what we do to traitors.”

Prudence let out a harsh, broken laugh that ended in a sob.

“Traitors?” she cried, standing up from her chair and facing him with wild, furious energy. “I gave you three years of my life, Dante! I sat in the shadows while your father treated me like a servant! I waited for you every night in that house, believing that when you took the throne, I would finally have a place beside you!”

She took a ragged step toward him, pointing a trembling finger at his chest.

“And then you married that quiet little librarian! You threw me out like trash on your wedding night! You let her humiliate me in front of the entire council!”

Dante stared at her, feeling no anger—only a profound, sickening pity.

“I didn't humiliate you, Prudence,” Dante said quietly. “You humiliated yourself when you chose to be an accomplice to a man who didn't love you.”

Prudence froze, those words striking her like a physical blow.

“I was honest with you from the first day,” Dante continued, his voice steady, uncompromising. “I told you the marriage was an alliance. I told you I could offer you money and protection, but never a name. You accepted those terms because you thought you could manipulate me once my father died.”

He stepped closer to the desk, looking down at the laptop screen.

“You didn't do this to destroy the Rinaldi empire, Prudence. You did this because you thought if I was in trouble, I would come back to you for help.”

Prudence slumped back against the desk, her face burying into her hands as heavy, violent tears finally spilled over her fingers.

“I have nothing left,” she sobbed. “Nothing.”

Dante reached out, closing the laptop screen with a firm snap.

“You have your life,” Dante said softly. “Because my wife asked me not to hurt you.”

Prudence looked up, her eyes wide with shock. “What?”

“Mara knew you were behind the tip two hours ago,” Dante revealed. “My council wanted me to eliminate you tonight. Mara told me that a true leader doesn't murder broken people to cover up his own past mistakes.”

He picked up a white envelope from his coat pocket and laid it beside her wine glass.

“There is fifty thousand dollars in cash in that envelope, along with a one-way ticket to Italy. A car is waiting downstairs to take you to JFK airport. If you get on that plane tonight, the federal investigation will be quashed through our legal channels, and you will never see a Rinaldi again.”

Prudence stared at the envelope, then looked up into Dante’s cold, resolute face.

“And if I refuse?” she whispered.

Dante’s gray eyes turned into absolute ice.

“Then my wife’s mercy ends,” Dante said softly. “And mine never existed.”