The clinic door closed behind her with a hollow thud, and the cold night air slapped her face. Fiorella stopped for a moment, inhaling deeply, as if trying to contain the whirlwind of emotions storming inside her. But it was useless. A low, guttural growl escaped her clenched lips.

"Hope that bitch dies," she muttered through her teeth, feeling the rage burn her from the inside out.

She hated her. With every fiber of her being.

Dante was supposed to be hers. Not that intruder’s. Not that cheap woman who had appeared out of nowhere to steal what rightfully belonged to her. She’d watched him grow—from a scrawny boy into a powerful, commanding man. She had loved him in silence for years, dreaming of the day he would finally see her as something more than just the little girl who had always been by his side.

She clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms. No. She wasn’t going to let that Russian whore ruin what she had waited her whole life for.

Her mind drifted, involunta