The Mafia Boss Kidnapped the Wrong Bride — But Refused to Give Her Back When He Saw Her Scars

The library transformed into a sterile, quiet sanctuary within fifteen minutes.

Dr. Jonathan Calloway—a older man with silver hair, sharp hazel eyes, and a quiet medical bag—arrived without asking a single question. He was the Voss family's private physician, a man accustomed to patching up bullet wounds in dark basements, yet the moment he pulled back Dante’s suit jacket and examined Elena’s back, his hands visibly shook.

Dante stood by the fireplace, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows into the dark pine forest. His expression was an unreadable mask, but the air around him radiated a lethal tension that kept his guards standing outside the door in absolute silence.

“She’s severely malnourished, Dante,” Dr. Calloway said softly, applying a soothing cream to the fresh welts on her spine. “She has multiple healed fractures in her ribs that were never properly set. The bruises on her lower back are less than forty-eight hours old.”

Elena lay on the leather sofa, her face pressed into a velvet pillow, her body shivering beneath a thick wool blanket.

“And the baby?” Dante asked, his voice low and raspy. He didn't turn around.

Calloway paused, holding a portable ultrasound device against her lower abdomen. He adjusted the screen, listening carefully to the tiny, rhythmic sound that filled the quiet room.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

“The fetus is stable,” Calloway reported, leaning over to wipe the cooling gel from Elena's skin. “Roughly ten weeks along. But her stress levels are dangerously high. If she experiences any more physical trauma, she will lose the pregnancy. She needs bed rest, high-calorie meals, and absolute safety.”

Elena let out a faint, shuddering breath, clutching the blanket to her chin. Stable. Her baby was still alive.

Dante slowly turned around. His icy eyes locked onto Elena’s pale face. He walked over to the sofa, stepping with a silence that seemed impossible for a man of his size.

“Who did this to you?” Dante asked. His tone was not angry; it was entirely devoid of emotion, which made it infinitely more terrifying.

Elena swallowed hard, shrinking back into the cushions. “It... it doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me,” Dante said quietly, leaning down until his face was inches from hers. “You are currently inside my house. My men took you. That makes you my responsibility until I decide otherwise. Who gave you those scars?”

“Arthur Ashworth,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “And... and Marcus Whitlock.”

Dante’s eyes narrowed into sharp slits. Marcus Whitlock—the rising political star, the man set to marry Vivienne Ashworth, the golden boy backed by Manhattan's elite.

“Whitlock is the father?” Dante asked.

Elena shook her head violently. “No! Marcus... Marcus used me whenever Vivienne was away. He told me if I ever refused him, he would tell Arthur I was stealing from the family. When I found out I was pregnant two weeks ago, I knew he would kill me if he found out. The baby isn't his. It... it belongs to someone who helped me escape the estate once, a man who died a month ago.”

Dante stared at her for a long, heavy moment. He reached out his hand, his long fingers hovering above her cheek before gently brushing a strand of dark hair away from her tear-stained eyes. His touch was surprisingly soft, devoid of the harshness she had anticipated.

“They used you as a punching bag,” Dante stated, his voice flat.

“I was the illegitimate daughter,” Elena said quietly. “My mother died when I was five. Arthur brought me into his house to be Vivienne’s personal maid. I wasn't allowed to go to school. I wasn't allowed to leave the grounds. I was just... a shadow.”

Dante stood up, adjusting his cuffs. He looked down at her small frame, then turned to Dr. Calloway.

“Keep her comfortable,” Dante commanded. “Move her to the master suite on the third floor.”

Calloway nodded, packing his supplies. “And what about your trade with Arthur Ashworth? Your men still have the waterfront blockade set for tomorrow.”

Dante walked toward the library doors, pausing with his hand on the brass handle. He didn't look back.

“Tell my lieutenants the trade is canceled,” Dante said quietly. “We are no longer negotiating for the docks.”