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On the night of my husband's thirty-fifth birthday, I spent six hours preparing a candlelit dinner—only to find him on his mistress's Instagram story. The most feared Mafia Don on the West Coast was dancing cheek-to-cheek with her. She'd rented out an entire jazz club, captioned: "Celebrating the boss's big day 🖤" I liked the post and commented: "Great party. Would be perfect if someone remembered his wife's been waiting all night." Three seconds later, the story vanished. He called, shouting: "It was a joke, Elena! Stop being so damn sensitive!" Her silvery laugh echoed in the background. The old me would have broken down. Would have cried. Would have forgiven. But not this time. When betrayal becomes this blatant, a dead heart is actually a kind of liberation. Don Moretti could own the entire city—but he had already lost his wife. Forever. …… On my husband's thirty-fifth birthday, I spent six hours in the kitchen. Ossobuco braised until tender. Handmade pasta. Tiramisu from scratch. I set the table with our wedding crystal, lit eighteen candles—one for each month of marriage—and waited. I waited until the candles melted into stubs. Until the ossobuco went cold and the pasta congealed into a gluey mass. Dante never showed. At eleven-thirty, I found him on Sienna Vale's Instagram story. My husband—the Don of the Moretti family, the most feared man on the West Coast—was laughing in some downtown jazz club, surrounded by faces I didn't recognize. She'd rented out the entire venue. For him. The next shot showed them cheek to cheek, her red lips brushing his ear. Celebrating the boss's big day. Private party vibes 🖤 I double-tapped the screen. Liked it. Then left a comment: "Great party. Would be perfect if someone remembered his wife's been waiting all night." Three seconds later, the story vanished. Then my phone exploded. Dante's face filled the screen, jaw tight, eyes hard. "It was a joke, Elena." Behind him, I could hear clinking glasses and Sienna's silvery laugh. "The guys threw me a surprise thing. I couldn't just walk out. You know how it works—Family business." "Of course," I said. "Don't start. I'll make it up to you." "I'm not starting anything." He hung up without saying goodbye. Fifteen minutes later, Sienna reposted the same photo on her main feed. This time she was smiling directly at the camera, her palm flat against his chest like she owned him. The old Elena would have driven downtown and burned the place to the ground. But this Elena? This Elena scraped the ossobuco into the trash, blew out the last candle, and went to bed. I didn't cry. I didn't feel anything at all. That satisfying numbness scared me more than his betrayal ever could. He came home after two in the morning, trailing whiskey and her perfume—that cloying tuberose that clung to everything he touched. I kept my eyes shut. My breathing even. The mattress dipped. His hand found my hip—possessive, automatic—the way he touched everything he owned. His thumb traced a slow circle against my silk nightgown, warm through the fabric. Once, that touch made me arch into him. Now I felt nothing. Then it slid away. The next morning, I found him in the kitchen, scrolling through his phone. He barely glanced up. "Got you something last night." He nodded toward the fridge. "King crab bisque. That place you like." The place I'd introduced him to five years ago. Before Sienna Vale existed in our universe. "I saw it," I said. This was his pattern. After humiliating me, he'd show up with food. Our unspoken truce. The Don's version of an apology—never words, only offerings. "Let me heat it up for you." Before I could refuse, he was already pulling the container from the fridge. Ten minutes later, the smell of something burning drifted out. Dante was in the bedroom on the phone. I had to turn off the stove myself. I was ladling the bisque into a bowl when his phone lit up on the counter. Sienna's name. Her message filled the screen. Last night was perfect, D. Can't stop thinking about it 💋 I didn't have time to look away. "Who told you to touch my phone?" His voice cut through me. I turned. He stood right behind me, jaw tight, radiating that cold authority he used on soldiers who'd failed him. "I didn't—ow!" He shoved past me to grab the phone, his shoulder catching my arm. The ladle slipped. Scalding bisque splashed across my left hand. My scream came before the pain—then the pain arrived, white-hot and absolute. The skin blistered instantly, angry welts blooming from my fingers to my wrist. Dante stared at me like I'd done something inconvenient. "Jesus, Elena." He sighed. Actually sighed. "Fine. I'll take you to urgent care." The pain was too sharp for words. I cradled my hand against my chest and followed him to the car. His Tesla smelled like tuberose. I buckled in, biting down on my lip until I tasted copper. That's when I saw it—a pink sticky note tucked into the sun visor, looping script: Reserved for the Don's little navigator ♡ My burned hand throbbed. The pain sharpened everything. Dante caught me looking. "Sienna put that there as a joke. You know how she is." "Creative," I said. He watched me through the rearview mirror. Waiting for the explosion. The tears. The begging. I gave him nothing. "You're not going to rip it down?" I blinked. "Why would I?" Something shifted behind his eyes—confusion, maybe. He wasn't used to this version of me. The version that didn't fight. Didn't beg. Didn't care. "Let's just go," I said. "I have work this afternoon." He drove fast after that. We were three blocks from the clinic when the speakers lit up with a custom ringtone—some breathy love song. Sienna's voice flooded the car, high and trembling. "Dante? I need you." "What's wrong?" "I had too much last night, and my head is splitting—" A sob. "It's one of my migraines. The light, the noise—I think I'm going to pass out—" Without a word. Without a glance. Dante made a U-turn and floored it toward downtown. "Dante." I held up my blistered hand. "The clinic—" "She gets these attacks." His voice was flat. Final. "I'll check on her real quick." Twenty minutes later, we pulled up outside a luxury high-rise. Dante reached into the glove compartment—Advil and an electrolyte drink. Things I had packed for him. Weeks ago. "Just wait here," he said. "Ten minutes." He locked the car. Jogged inside. Ten minutes became thirty. Thirty became an hour. The California sun beat through the windshield, turning the Tesla into an oven. Sweat dripped down my spine. My vision blurred. My burned hand throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I tried the door. Child-locked. I tried calling. Voicemail. At fifty minutes, I found the emergency hammer in the console and smashed the passenger window. Glass rained across the sidewalk. A woman on the sidewalk stopped when she saw me climbing out through the shattered window. "Oh my God—are you okay?" "I need an Uber to the nearest hospital," I said, steadying myself against the car. "Could you help me call one?" The clinic bandaged my hand—second-degree burns, needed monitoring—and gave me a lecture about heat exhaustion I didn't hear. I Ubered home. Ordered Thai. Ate it alone at the counter. Dante walked in at seven-thirty, looking surprised to see me there. "Elena." He scanned the empty containers. "You didn't order anything for me?" I looked at him. This man I'd loved for eight years. This man who'd locked me in a car like a dog while he ran to comfort another woman. He knew my hand was injured. He knew I couldn't cook. And his first question was about his dinner. "My phone was on silent," I said. "Didn't see your text." I turned back to the TV. I didn't look at him for the rest of the night. Chapter 2 The next evening, Dante came home early. I was curled up on the sofa watching a documentary about Venetian glassblowing when I heard his key in the lock. My bandaged hand rested on a throw pillow, the burn still pulsing with every heartbeat. He walked in carrying a glossy black shopping bag. Prada. He set it on the coffee table in front of me like a peace offering laid at the feet of a queen he'd wronged. "For you," he said. His voice was softer than usual. Almost careful. I didn't reach for it. He sat down beside me—closer than he'd been in weeks—and I caught the scent clinging to his shirt. Not tuberose this time, but something deeper. Richer. Baccarat Rouge 540. I recognized it because Sienna had posted an unboxing video last week, running the bottle across her collarbone, laughing about how it cost nearly five hundred dollars. And here was my husband. The Don of the Moretti family. Drenched in his mistress's perfume, handing me a gift like that would erase the blisters on my skin. I opened the bag. Inside was a candle. Jo Malone. The kind they give you free when you buy the real thing. He was wearing her scent. And he'd brought me the leftover sample. "You don't like it?" "It's lovely," I said, and set it aside without looking at him. Dante's jaw tightened. He caught my chin, turning my face toward him—a gentle touch that once made me melt. "Elena. I know yesterday was... complicated. But I'm trying here." He leaned closer, his breath warm against my temple, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Can you at least meet me halfway? Talk to me. You're acting like I'm not even in the room." Once, that low voice in my ear would have made my pulse stutter. I would have turned into him, let him kiss the apology onto my lips, let his hands wander until I forgot why I was angry. But my hand still throbbed beneath its bandages. I could still feel the ghost of that locked door handle under my palm. The heat of the car. The way he hadn't even looked back. "I'm not acting like anything," I said, pulling free from his grip. "I'm watching TV." "You've been cold ever since I walked in the door—" "I'm tired." I stood, letting his hand fall away. "Think I'll turn in early." "Elena." His voice dropped to that dangerous register, the one that made capos twice his age lower their eyes. "Don't walk away from me." I paused in the doorway. Looked at him over my shoulder. The old Elena would have trembled. Would have come back to the couch, curled into his side, whispered sorry sorry sorry until he deigned to forgive her. "Goodnight, Dante." I didn't wait for his response. The moment I slid under the covers, he followed me in. The mattress dipped. His body pressed against my back, one arm sliding around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His lips found the curve of my neck—that spot below my ear that used to make me gasp. "Elena." His voice was rough. Low. "Don't shut me out." His hand slid beneath my nightgown, palm flat against my stomach, fingers splayed possessively across my skin. Warm. Familiar. The way he'd touched me a thousand times before. His kiss lasted barely three seconds before I shoved him off—hard enough that he stumbled back. He snapped on the bedside lamp, chest heaving. "What the hell? Don't tell me you forgot what day it is." Dante and I had been trying for a baby. Around this time each month, he always made a point to "do his duty." I rolled onto my side, facing away from him. "I'm too tired. Goodnight." Hearing his own excuse—the same words he'd used on me countless times—thrown back at him left him speechless. He stood there for a moment, jaw working. Then he grabbed his pillow and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame. I knew he'd sleep in the guest wing for the next few days. Once, that would have sent me spiraling. I would have lain awake all night, heart aching, wondering what I'd done wrong. But that night, I slept better than I had in months. The next morning, I stopped my boss Catherine in the hallway. "That divorce attorney you mentioned last year—the one who handled the Romano situation. Do you still have her number?" Catherine's eyebrows rose. But she was old Sicilian, three generations deep in families like ours. She knew better than to ask questions. "I'll text it to you before lunch." …… By day nine of separate bedrooms, Dante made his move. I woke to the smell of bacon. Found him in the kitchen—this man who had soldiers to taste his food, who hadn't touched a stove in eight years of marriage—standing over a pan of scrambled eggs. He didn't say anything when I walked in. Just slid a plate across the counter, poured me coffee, black, the way I liked it. His eyes tracked my every movement, searching for something. I didn't give it to him. The eggs were overcooked. Rubbery. I ate them anyway, alone at the counter, then grabbed my keys and left without a word. That afternoon, my phone buzzed. Marco De Luca—Dante's underboss—had posted photos from his engagement party. I scrolled through them in my office. Champagne towers. A seven-tier cake. The happy couple beaming for the camera. And there, in the background of nearly every shot: Dante with Sienna draped on his arm, laughing up at him like she had every right to be there. Like she was the Donna of the family instead of me. She was wearing a coat I recognized. Charcoal cashmere, custom-cut, with hand-stitched buttons I'd chosen myself. I'd given it to Dante for our fifth anniversary. Last month, I'd asked him to wear it to my father's birthday dinner. He'd snapped that he'd lost it on a business trip to New York. Called me obsessive for bringing it up twice. And here it was. Draped over Sienna Vale's shoulders like a trophy. I stared at that photo for a long time. At her smile. At his hand on her lower back. Then I screenshot the image. Opened Instagram. Posted it to my story with a simple caption: Picked out every stitch of that coat for my husband. Funny how it ended up on the backup. Three seconds later, my phone exploded. Dante's name. Calling. Chapter 3 The call came through while I was still staring at my laptop screen, pretending to work. Dante's voice was tight, controlled—the voice he used in sitdowns when a deal was about to go sideways. "The coat," he said. "I can explain." "Can you?" "It was cold that night. Sienna didn't bring a jacket. I was being polite." "Polite." I let the word sit there. "You told me you lost it in New York." A pause. I could hear him breathing, recalibrating. Dante Moretti didn't get caught off guard. He was the one who laid traps, not the one who stumbled into them. "It turned up," he said finally. "Slipped my mind." "Clearly." "Elena." His voice softened, sliding into that low register he used when he wanted something. "Don't make this bigger than it is. It's a coat. I'll buy you ten more if that's what this is about." My stomach twisted. Once, that voice would have melted me. "It's not about the coat, Dante." "Then what—" "Was there something else?" Silence. I could almost hear his jaw tightening. "Marco's engagement party," he said. "I needed a plus-one. It was Family business. Don't make this into something it isn't." "I'm not making it into anything." Another pause. He wasn't used to this—no tears, no accusations, no desperate questions. Just flat, empty nothing. "I'm picking you up at seven." His tone hardened. "Marco's throwing a proper dinner tonight. Be ready." The line went dead before I could respond. At seven fifteen, his black Maserati pulled up outside my office. I opened the back door and froze. Sienna was already in the passenger seat. My seat. She turned, burgundy silk catching the streetlight, lips curving into that smile I'd come to recognize. The smile of a woman who believed she'd already won. "Elena!" She leaned between the seats, close enough that her perfume—that cloying tuberose—wrapped around me. "What a fun surprise. Dante didn't mention you were joining us!" I looked at Dante. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, but he didn't turn. "Last minute," I said, and slid into the back. The drive was twenty minutes of Sienna filling every silence—about the venue, about Marco's fiancée's dress, about some new rooftop bar the Family had just acquired. Every few sentences, she'd touch Dante's arm, his shoulder, laughing at things that weren't funny. Dante kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, trying to catch my eye. I watched the city lights blur past and gave him nothing. The private room at Carbone was already full when we arrived. Marco met us at the door. "Boss." His eyes shifted to me, softening. "Mrs. Moretti. Honored you could make it." At least someone remembered who I was. Dante's palm settled on my lower back as we entered—warm, possessive, his fingers pressing just hard enough to remind me I was his. A gesture that used to make me lean into him. That used to make me forget we were surrounded by men who would kill on his word. I kept my spine straight. Let him guide me to our seats without a word. The dinner blurred past. Toasts. Laughter. I smiled when expected, raised my glass when prompted. The old Elena would have softened under his touches. This Elena counted the minutes until she could leave. Halfway through the main course, the restaurant manager appeared at Dante's elbow. "Mr. Moretti, sir—those bottles you and Miss Vale put aside last month. The '89 Burgundy. Shall I open them for the table?" The conversation around us stuttered. Forks paused mid-air. Dante's hand froze on my thigh. "That was for the Calabrese deal. Business." "Of course, sir." The manager smiled, oblivious. "Miss Vale mentioned she'd been looking forward to it." I reached for my water glass. Took a slow, deliberate sip. "Open them," I said, my voice pleasant. "No sense letting good wine go to waste." I let the silence satisfying for a moment. Then I stood. "Excuse me." Dante caught up with me in the hallway, his hand closing around my elbow. "Elena. Those bottles—we closed a big deal. That's all it was." I didn't pull away. Didn't look at him. I just lifted his hand off my arm, finger by finger, and walked into the restroom without a word. When I came back, Dante was leaning toward Sienna, his arm stretched in front of her, blocking the wine glass someone was trying to pass her way. Shielding her. Protecting her. The memory slammed into me so hard I had to grip the back of an empty chair. Two years ago. A dinner just like this one. They'd pressured me to drink, insisting it was tradition. I told them I was allergic. Dante didn't shield me. He pressed his hand down on my shoulder, leaned close to my ear, and murmured, "One drink, bella. Don't embarrass me. Worst case, we'll get your stomach pumped." I drank it. To keep the peace. To be the wife he wanted. That night, I burned with fever. Two days later, I woke up in the ER, my body seizing with cramps. The doctor told me I'd been one month pregnant. The baby was gone. Dante burst into my hospital room. He didn't ask how I felt. Didn't hold my hand. "I told you not to go," he'd said. "But you just had to force your way into a man's business. This is what you get for not listening." The memory burned behind my eyes. I walked back to the table. Picked up my purse. And left without a single word. The front door slammed open an hour later. Dante stormed in, his face dark with fury. He found me on the couch, watching TV, utterly calm. "What the hell was that?" His voice echoed through the living room. "Walking out in the middle of dinner? In front of my men? In front of Marco? You wanted to humiliate me—is that it?" I didn't look away from the screen. "Elena!" He stepped in front of the TV, blocking my view. "Answer me!" I said nothing. His breathing grew ragged. He loosened his tie with a violent jerk. "Fine. You want to play it this way?" A bitter laugh escaped him. "Maybe we should just end this. Get a divorce." This was the second time he'd said it. The first was a year ago—a misunderstanding. He'd thought I'd gone through his phone. I'd dropped to my knees beside him, tears streaming, swearing I'd never make him angry again. But now, I looked up at him. Met his eyes. "Okay." The word landed like a bullet. Dante went still. The anger drained from his face, replaced by something I'd never seen before. Confusion. Then disbelief. "What did you say?" "I said okay." My voice was steady. Quiet. "Let's get divorced." He stared at me. His chest rose and fell, but no words came. For the first time in eight years, Dante Moretti had nothing to say. Chapter 4 The silence in the living room pressed against my eardrums like a held breath. Dante stood frozen, staring at me like I'd just pulled a gun on him. "You're serious." His voice pitched higher than usual—almost desperate. "You actually want to end this." "You're the one who brought up divorce." "I was making a point, Elena." He stepped toward me, close enough that I could smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating off his body. "I didn't think you'd actually—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. Then laughed—a short, disbelieving sound. "I see what this is." His eyes narrowed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've learned to play hard to get. Cute." He loosened his tie, tossing it onto the couch. "But I don't play those games, sweetheart." The front door slammed behind him hard enough to rattle the windows. He didn't come back. Two weeks. No calls. No texts. No black Maserati idling outside my office. Word filtered back through the wives, through whispers after Sunday mass—Dante had moved into the penthouse suite at the Moretti-owned hotel downtown. Taking meetings. Closing deals. Living like a man who'd forgotten he had a wife at home. On day five, my phone buzzed at 2 AM. Marco's name. "Mrs. Moretti." His voice was careful—the tone soldiers used when delivering bad news. "The Boss... he's had a rough night. Too much whiskey. He's asking for someone to bring him home." I stared at the ceiling in the dark. The sheets beside me cold. Empty. "Then call Sienna. I'm sure she keeps a spare key." Silence. I could almost hear him wince. "Mrs. Moretti—" "Goodnight, Marco." I hung up. Rolled over. Closed my eyes. Two hours later, the front door opened. Heavy footsteps. The clatter of keys missing the bowl. Then Dante appeared in my doorway, swaying slightly, shirt half-untucked, collar smeared with something pink. Lipstick. Her shade. "Elena." His voice was rougher than usual. Softer. "Couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about you." He moved toward the bed. His hand found my shoulder—tentative, almost gentle. His thumb brushed my collarbone, tracing the strap of my nightgown. The touch that once made me arch into him now felt like a stranger's hand on my skin. "Come on, sweetheart." His breath was warm against my hair, carrying whiskey and her perfume. "Let's just... talk. Like we used to." I looked at him. At the performance of vulnerability. At the calculated softness in his eyes. At the lipstick on his collar he hadn't bothered to wipe. "You smell like her," I said. "And you're in the wrong room." I turned my back to him and pulled the covers higher. He stood there for a long moment. I could feel his stare boring into my spine, could hear his breathing shift—confusion bleeding into something darker. Then he left. The guest room door clicked shut down the hall. I didn't sleep. But I smiled in the dark. …… After that night, everything changed. Dante started coming home. Every night. On time. The roses began arriving at my office—three dozen red ones, every single day, in crystal vases that cost more than my assistant's monthly salary. The cards all said the same thing: You're still mine. —D I sent them to the children's hospital downtown. Every last one. Day four brought a Cartier box. I left it unopened on my desk. Day five, white orchids. Day six, pink peonies. Day seven, a pair of diamond earrings I recognized from a magazine spread Sienna had liked last month. My phone buzzed constantly—his name flashing over and over. I watched him refresh my Instagram like clockwork, every hour on the hour. My feed stayed empty. I met with my lawyer that afternoon. Rebecca Chen—the woman who'd buried three Cosa Nostra marriages and walked away with the wives holding everything. "He's getting desperate," she said, sliding a folder across her desk. "That's good. Desperate men make mistakes." "How long do I wait?" "Until he shows you exactly who he is." She smiled, cold and precise. "Then we take everything." That Saturday, I met Vivian at a private club downtown—some new place the old families had bought into. "Elena! Over here!" I started toward her booth—and froze. Dante was there. In a corner booth, half-hidden by shadows. But I could see enough. His hand was tangled in Sienna's hair. Her body pressed against his chest. Their lips locked together—not a stolen peck, but the kind of kiss that didn't care who was watching. The kind of kiss he used to give me. My feet stopped moving before my brain caught up. Something cold spread through my chest—not pain, not anymore. Just recognition. As if sensing my presence, Dante pulled back. His eyes found mine across the room. Panic flashed across his face—naked, unguarded. His composure cracked. For the first time, Dante Moretti looked like a man who didn't know what to do next. He crossed the room in four strides, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Elena." His voice was steady, but his jaw was tight. "It's not what it looks like. We were playing truth or dare. Marco dared her to—" "Truth or dare," I repeated. "How very high school of you." "Elena, I swear—" Behind him, Sienna approached. Eyes glistening, lips still swollen from his kiss. "Elena, please." Her voice trembled—perfectly pitched, perfectly wounded. "It was just a silly game. You have to believe me. There's nothing between us. I would never—" She pressed a hand to her chest. Then lifted her arm to dab at her tears. That's when I saw it. A tattoo on the inside of her wrist. A North Star—delicate, precise, inked in fine black lines. My heart slammed against my ribs. Two months ago. Our bedroom. Dante stepping out of the shower, water still beading on his skin. I'd traced my fingers across his chest and found it—a new tattoo, just below his collarbone. A North Star. "What's this?" I'd asked. "Lost a bet with Marco." He'd pulled on his shirt without meeting my eyes. "Don't make it weird." Now I understood. The same star. The same size. Inked where a lover's lips might linger. I looked at her wrist. Then at his face. He'd gone pale. His mouth opened—but nothing came out. Matching. Hidden. Theirs. Sienna's tears dried instantly. Her hand flew to cover the mark. Too late. I stepped forward. Took his hand in my left. Hers in my right. Their skin was warm against my cold palms. And pressed them together. "True love deserves a witness," I said softly. "The one who isn't loved shouldn't stand in the way." I released them both. "Pick a date. I'll send champagne." I turned toward the door. "Elena—" His voice cracked. "Wait—" I kept walking. But just before I reached the exit, I paused. Turned back one last time. And did the one thing no one in that room expected. --------------------------------------------------------------- Due to the word limit, please download PickNovel and search for 55638 in the app to continue reading more exciting content. 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