"Mafiaaa Boss Left His Bride for His Mistress on Their Wedding Night

Thirty-six hours later, the intensive care suite at the Avanoir private compound was quiet.

The steady, rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor was the only sound in the dim room. Dante Avanoir slowly opened his eyes.

The pain in his chest was a blinding, hot weight, but his mind cleared within seconds. The instinct of a predator never slept. He looked down at the tubes in his arm, then shifted his gaze toward the bedside.

Curled up in the leather armchair beside his bed, fast asleep, was Nyla.

She looked pale, small, and utterly exhausted. Her hand was resting on the edge of his mattress, her fingers curled slightly, as if she had fallen asleep reaching for him. She still wore the tailored suit from the council meeting.

Dante looked at her. A profound, overwhelming ache struck him—not from his bullet wound, but from the deep, jagged cavity in his chest that had spent thirty years believing he was incapable of loving anything.

He moved his fingers weakly, brushing against her hand.

Nyla stirred immediately. Her eyes fluttered open, dark emerald meeting amber.

"Dante..." she whispered, sitting up instantly. Her hand flew to his face, her touch trembling with fierce relief. "You're awake. Don't move. I'll call the doctor—"

Dante caught her wrist. His grip was weak compared to his usual strength, but it was unyielding.

"Don't," he rasped, his voice raw and dry. "Stay here."

Nyla’s eyes welled with tears, but she blinked them back, biting her lip. "You nearly died, you fool. You took a bullet for me."

"I would take a thousand," Dante said, his voice gaining strength, his gaze locked onto hers with absolute, terrifying devotion. "Tae-oh was here while you slept. He told me what you did at the Port Authority."

A small, self-deprecating smile touched Nyla’s lips. "I told them I would have them shot. I think they believed me."

"They should," Dante whispered, a faint, proud smirk gracing his pale lips. "You terrified them more than I ever have."

He pulled gently on her hand, drawing her closer until her face was inches from his.

"Nyla... look at me," he murmured.

She leaned in, resting her forehead gently against his cheek, inhaling the scent of him—hospital antiseptic mixed with the deep, warm cedarwood that was uniquely his.

"I need to tell you the truth," Dante said, his voice heavy with solemn gravity. "Not the half-truths. The whole truth."

"You don't have to—"

"I do," he interrupted softly. "Four years ago, before your father approached me, I saw you. At the National Modern Art Museum in Seoul. You were restoring a sixteenth-century fresco of Saint Michael. You were standing on scaffolding, your face smudged with plaster dust, completely lost in your work. You looked like something out of heaven that had accidentally fallen into this rotten world."

Nyla’s breath hitched. She looked into his amber eyes, seeing the raw vulnerability he had spent his entire life burying.

"I asked my men who you were," Dante continued, his thumb gently stroking her knuckles. "When they told me you were Vane’s daughter, I realized who was circling you. The Han cartel. The Russian Vor. They saw you as a prize to strip and discard. I swore that day that no one in this underworld would ever lay a hand on you. When your father fell ill, I didn't take your inheritance to enrich myself. I took it so I could build an iron cage around you that no one could break."

He swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly.

"My only sin, Nyla, was that I was too cowardly to tell you I loved you. I thought if you knew a killer loved you, you would look at me with horror. So I let you believe in business. I let you believe in contracts. Because having you hate me as my wife was better than living in a world where you didn't belong to me at all."

Nyla’s tears finally spilled over, dropping onto his chest like warm rain.

She leaned down and pressed her lips softly, tenderly against his. It was a kiss devoid of darkness, filled with an unspoken covenant of blood, truth, and forgiveness.

"You are an idiot, Dante Avanoir," she whispered against his lips, smiling through her tears. "An arrogant, overbearing, lethal idiot."

"And you are my queen," Dante murmured against her mouth. "Now tell me where Han Seol-ah is."

Nyla’s expression hardened into pure, icy perfection. "She’s at Pier 7. Waiting for her Russian transport."