Chapter 3: The Devil’s Offer
My mind raced, piecing together fragments I'd never questioned in my last life.
Marcus's "business trips." The hushed phone calls. The bruises on his knuckles he blamed on the gym. The men who sometimes came to dinner—hard-faced, cold-eyed, nothing like the Wall Street types he claimed they were.
Marcus wasn't just a businessman.
He was something far worse—and Dante Corsetti wanted him dead.
"Your husband launders money for the Volkov Syndicate," Dante continued, his voice smooth and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. "Three years ago, my brother discovered one of their operations. Marcus personally ordered the hit."
I felt sick. Not because I didn't believe it—but because I did. Instantly. Completely.
All those years, sleeping beside a killer, kissing a killer, trusting a killer with my life.
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
Dante studied me for a long moment. "Access. Information. The documents in his safe, the meetings on his calendar, the names in his phone." He paused. "In return, I'll give you something no lawyer or court ever could."
"What?"
"Freedom. Real freedom. Not a divorce settlement that Marcus's people will freeze in litigation for years. Not a restraining order he'll violate the next day." Dante's jaw tightened. "I'll give you his empire, piece by piece. Everything he stole from you—returned. And when it's over, Marcus Blackwell will have nothing. Not his money. Not his reputation. Not his life."
The words hung in the air between us like a blade.
I should have been terrified. This man was offering to partner with me in dismantling my husband—a man connected to the Russian mob, a man who'd already killed to protect his secrets.
But all I felt was cold, clear certainty.
"Deal," I said.
Dante extended his hand. His grip was warm, firm, his fingers calloused in ways that told me he didn't just give orders—he carried them out personally.
"One condition," he added, still holding my hand. "You stay alive. Whatever happens, you come to me first. Not the police, not a lawyer. Me."
"Why do you care if I live or die?"
Something flickered in those black eyes. Gone before I could name it.
"Because dead women can't testify," he said flatly. Then he released my hand and leaned back. "My driver will take you home. We start tomorrow. I'll send you a secure phone."
I stood, legs slightly unsteady. At the door, I turned back.
"Dante."
He looked up.
"In my last life, you tried to save me," I said quietly. "That card you gave me—it was a lifeline. I just didn't know it until I was already dead."
For the first time, his composure cracked. Just barely—a tightening around his eyes, a shift in his breathing.
"Then don't waste it this time," he said.
I drove home in a daze, my head full of plans and numbers and names. Twelve million secured. Dante's alliance locked in. The flash drive still in my purse.
When I pulled into the driveway, Vivian's car was parked outside.
She was inside. In my house. Sitting at my kitchen island, drinking my coffee, laughing at something on her phone.
She looked up when I walked in, all sunshine and sweetness. "Sera! I was hoping to catch you. I'm throwing a charity gala next week and I need your help with the guest list."
In my last life, this was the gala where she publicly humiliated me. She "accidentally" spilled wine on my dress, then announced to the room that Marcus and I were separating—before I even knew it myself. She orchestrated the whole evening to isolate me, to make me look unstable, so that when I disappeared six months later, no one would question it.
I smiled. Warm. Friendly. Completely fake.
"Of course, Viv. I'd love to help."
Her eyes sparkled. She thought she had me—the same obedient, trusting fool she could manipulate.
But this time, that gala was going to be her funeral.
And she had no idea she'd just handed me the shovel.
---
Marcus's "business trips." The hushed phone calls. The bruises on his knuckles he blamed on the gym. The men who sometimes came to dinner—hard-faced, cold-eyed, nothing like the Wall Street types he claimed they were.
Marcus wasn't just a businessman.
He was something far worse—and Dante Corsetti wanted him dead.
"Your husband launders money for the Volkov Syndicate," Dante continued, his voice smooth and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. "Three years ago, my brother discovered one of their operations. Marcus personally ordered the hit."
I felt sick. Not because I didn't believe it—but because I did. Instantly. Completely.
All those years, sleeping beside a killer, kissing a killer, trusting a killer with my life.
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
Dante studied me for a long moment. "Access. Information. The documents in his safe, the meetings on his calendar, the names in his phone." He paused. "In return, I'll give you something no lawyer or court ever could."
"What?"
"Freedom. Real freedom. Not a divorce settlement that Marcus's people will freeze in litigation for years. Not a restraining order he'll violate the next day." Dante's jaw tightened. "I'll give you his empire, piece by piece. Everything he stole from you—returned. And when it's over, Marcus Blackwell will have nothing. Not his money. Not his reputation. Not his life."
The words hung in the air between us like a blade.
I should have been terrified. This man was offering to partner with me in dismantling my husband—a man connected to the Russian mob, a man who'd already killed to protect his secrets.
But all I felt was cold, clear certainty.
"Deal," I said.
Dante extended his hand. His grip was warm, firm, his fingers calloused in ways that told me he didn't just give orders—he carried them out personally.
"One condition," he added, still holding my hand. "You stay alive. Whatever happens, you come to me first. Not the police, not a lawyer. Me."
"Why do you care if I live or die?"
Something flickered in those black eyes. Gone before I could name it.
"Because dead women can't testify," he said flatly. Then he released my hand and leaned back. "My driver will take you home. We start tomorrow. I'll send you a secure phone."
I stood, legs slightly unsteady. At the door, I turned back.
"Dante."
He looked up.
"In my last life, you tried to save me," I said quietly. "That card you gave me—it was a lifeline. I just didn't know it until I was already dead."
For the first time, his composure cracked. Just barely—a tightening around his eyes, a shift in his breathing.
"Then don't waste it this time," he said.
I drove home in a daze, my head full of plans and numbers and names. Twelve million secured. Dante's alliance locked in. The flash drive still in my purse.
When I pulled into the driveway, Vivian's car was parked outside.
She was inside. In my house. Sitting at my kitchen island, drinking my coffee, laughing at something on her phone.
She looked up when I walked in, all sunshine and sweetness. "Sera! I was hoping to catch you. I'm throwing a charity gala next week and I need your help with the guest list."
In my last life, this was the gala where she publicly humiliated me. She "accidentally" spilled wine on my dress, then announced to the room that Marcus and I were separating—before I even knew it myself. She orchestrated the whole evening to isolate me, to make me look unstable, so that when I disappeared six months later, no one would question it.
I smiled. Warm. Friendly. Completely fake.
"Of course, Viv. I'd love to help."
Her eyes sparkled. She thought she had me—the same obedient, trusting fool she could manipulate.
But this time, that gala was going to be her funeral.
And she had no idea she'd just handed me the shovel.
---