He Refused to Marry Me for 8 Years and Chose My Older Sister—3 Years Later, He Froze at the Airport Counting My Son’s Age!

The heavy iron gates of the Moretti estate in Lake Forest were sheared off their stone hinges at sixty miles per hour.

Three black armored tactical trucks smashed through the perimeter, followed by Dante’s black sedan, screeching to a halt on the circular cobblestone driveway beneath the century-old oak trees.

Dozens of armed Moretti security personnel poured out onto the manicured lawn, disarming Victoria’s private mercenaries before they could even draw their sidearms.

Inside the grand two-story library, Victoria Carter Moretti stood in front of an open wall safe, feverishly stuffing stacks of hundred-dollar bills and Swiss bearer bonds into a leather travel duffel.

She wore a dark mink coat, her blonde hair messy, her makeup smeared with sweat and panic.

The heavy mahogany double doors of the library were kicked inward, splintering against the stone doorframe with the force of an explosion.

Victoria screamed, dropping the duffel bag onto the Persian rug.

Dante walked into the room, wearing a fresh charcoal suit, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets, his presence so suffocatingly dominant that the air seemed to leave the chamber.

Behind him walked two senior detectives from the Chicago Police Department’s Special Homicide Division, accompanied by the Assistant United States Attorney.

“Dante!” Victoria stammered, backing up against the open steel safe, her hands clutching her throat. “Thank God you’re here! Armed men breached the gate—"

“Shut your mouth, Victoria,” Dante said, his voice flat, quiet, and deadlier than an executioner’s blade.

Victoria blinked, her eyes darting to the police detectives who were unhooking heavy steel handcuffs from their belts.

“What is this?” she shrieked, her aristocratic composure shattering into hysterical terror. “I am your wife! You cannot bring the police into our private home!”

“You are not my wife, Victoria,” Dante replied smoothly, pulling a certified legal decree from his inner jacket pocket and tossing it onto the mahogany desk. “The Vatican annulment was approved three hours ago pursuant to documented evidence of marital fraud and pre-existing criminal conspiracy.”

Victoria gasped, her face draining of all color.

The United States Attorney stepped forward, opening a thick manila folder labeled OPERATION BLACK TIDE: CARTER LOGISTICS FORENSIC AUDIT.

“Victoria Carter,” the federal prosecutor announced, his voice echoing off the high bookshelves. “You are under arrest for the aggravated homicide of Arthur Carter, corporate embezzlement of forty-two million dollars, wire fraud, and two counts of attempted murder involving minor transport.”

“That’s a lie!” Victoria screamed, lunging forward with her manicured nails bared like claws. “You have no proof! Arthur died of a heart attack! The coroner signed the certificate!”

Dante stepped into her path, his hand catching her wrist with an iron grip that forced her onto her knees before the desk.

He leaned down until his lips were inches from her ear.

“We exhumed your pharmaceutical supplier’s warehouse in Gary, Indiana, last night, Victoria,” Dante whispered, his words cutting through her like an icepick. “He kept the batch receipts for the synthetic potassium. He kept the audio recordings of your wire transfers. And he gave the grand jury the exact date you paid him to murder your own father.”

Victoria collapsed against the carpet, her face pressed into the wool fibers, letting out a horrific, animal wail of ruined greed and absolute defeat.

The detectives stepped forward, wrenching her arms behind her back and snapping the steel cuffs shut around her wrists.

They dragged her across the Persian rug toward the shattered doorway, her designer boots kicking uselessly as she wept, cursed, and begged for a mercy she had never once granted in her ruthless life.

Dante stood by the fireplace, watching her disappear down the marble corridor without a single shred of pity in his heart.