Erasing Mrs. Moretti

Five years into my marriage to Dante Moretti, the Don of the Chicago Outfit, the entire underworld knew he loved me more than life itself. He’d had a violin—for me—tattooed right next to his family crest, a symbol of loyalty that could never be erased. Until I got the photo from his mistress. A cocktail waitress, sprawled naked in his arms, her skin marred by the dark bruises of rough sex. She had scrawled her name right next to the violin he’d gotten for me. And my husband had let her. "Dante says only being inside me makes him feel like a man anymore. You can’t even get him hard anymore, can you, sweet Alessia? Maybe it’s time to step aside." I didn't reply. I just made a single call. “I need a new identity. And a plane ticket out.” Chapter 1 The taunting messages from my husband’s mistress started two months ago. Photos of them tangled in bed, explicit details of his obsession with her body… the brutal truth of their affair was laid bare. I didn’t confront him. I quietly arranged for a new identity and gave myself a deadline: seven days. In an abandoned warehouse on the west side of Chicago, a single, flickering bulb cast a weak yellow glow. I pushed a thick stack of cash across the table to the man in the flat cap. "I need a new identity," my voice echoed in the cavernous space. "The name is Ava." The man picked up the bills, fanning them with a practiced thumb. The rustle of the money was loud in the silence. "Passport, driver's license, the whole nine yards?" "The whole nine yards." I nodded, my fingers clenching the leather purse on my lap. "And a bank account with a credit history." "That'll be double." He looked up, a gold tooth glinting in the dim light. I didn't hesitate. I pushed out another stack. The man stuffed the cash into his jacket, then leaned forward, his voice low. "One week. But I gotta warn you, lady—once you use this new ID, the past has to be dead and buried. The Moretti family has eyes and ears everywhere in this country. You leave one single trace, they'll find you." I stood, my heels clicking sharply on the concrete floor. "I understand." My resolve was steel. Twenty minutes later, I was lying on a table in a private tattoo parlor. The sharp zap of the laser removal machine was a counterpoint to the dull ache in my chest as the eagle crest of the Moretti family slowly vanished from my collarbone. The pain was excruciating, like a hot poker searing my skin over and over. But I clenched my jaw and didn't make a sound. I just felt the five years of memories, my love for Dante, being burned away, just like the ink. It was eleven P.M. when I returned to our mansion in Lincoln Park. The eight-million-dollar Victorian villa, Dante’s wedding gift to me, now felt like nothing more than a gilded cage. I turned on the TV. A rerun of the Chicago Tribune's "Man of the Year" interview was playing. My husband, Dante Moretti, was on screen. His black hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. His deep brown eyes, filled with an innate aura of authority, stared into the camera. The reporter asked him what loyalty meant to him. Dante slowly undid the top button of his shirt, revealing the family crest on his chest—a hawk with its wings spread, talons gripping a rose and a dagger. "Loyalty is this," he said, his voice a low, magnetic rumble as he pointed to the ink over his heart. "And this." The camera zoomed in, and I saw it clearly: the delicate violin tattooed just below the crest—the one he’d gotten for me five years ago. "My wife, Alessia, is a gifted musician," Dante said, a smile playing on his lips as he raised the hand wearing his platinum wedding band. "She gave up her dream of becoming a world-class violinist for me. That sacrifice is etched over my heart. It can never be erased." I reached up and touched the gauze on my collarbone, the skin still aching. Never be erased? The memory of the photo slammed into me. Two months ago. A text from an unknown number. My phone vibrated, and a picture popped up. My world shattered. In the photo, a blonde bartender named Jenna was sprawled naked in Dante’s arms. Her body was a canvas of fresh hickeys and the raw marks of their passion. They had clearly just finished. Her long, slender finger was pointed proudly at Dante’s chest—where, next to my violin, a new, crude design had been scrawled in marker. Her name, "Jenna," in sloppy cursive. It was just a marker, something that could be washed away, but the fact that Dante had let her do it was a betrayal sharper than any blade. A dozen more photos followed. Them in our vacation home. At our favorite restaurant. Even on my birthday—while I thought he was handling "family business," he was pinning another woman against the wall of his study. "Dante says only being inside me makes him feel like a man anymore. You can’t even get him hard anymore, can you, sweet Alessia? Maybe it’s time to step aside." The sound of a key turning in the lock pulled me back to the present. Dante was home. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor, growing closer. I smelled it on him—a cheap perfume. Not the Tom Ford I’d bought him, but something sickeningly sweet and floral. The scent of another woman, mixed with cigarettes and vodka. His white shirt was slightly rumpled, his tie loose. There was an unmistakable bite mark on his neck. "Alessia? Still up?" He walked toward me, ready to embrace me like he always did. A wave of revulsion washed over me. I held up a hand, stopping him. Dante looked confused. Then his gaze fell to my collarbone, to the white gauze covering the spot where the Moretti crest used to be. "Alessia," his voice dropped, turning low and dangerous. "What happened to your tattoo?" Chapter 2 "A small burn," I said, my voice ice. Dante's hand froze mid-air. His brown eyes, the ones I used to get lost in, flickered with suspicion. But I wasn’t the naive music student I was five years ago. I had learned how to hold a perfect smile at a Moretti family dinner, how to survive with grace amidst blood and betrayal. "I got you a gift," I said, picking up a beautiful blue box from the sofa and sliding it toward him. The box was light. Inside was our wedding photo, cut into a thousand tiny pieces, each no bigger than a fingernail. Dante took the box, a look of what I once would have called genuine surprise on his face. "What’s the occasion? Did I forget something?" He didn't open it, instead placing it on the coffee table and reaching out to touch my face. I took a step back, my smile perfectly in place. "You really don't remember, Dante? It's our fifth wedding anniversary." His expression froze, as if he'd been slapped. I saw the flicker of panic in his eyes, the guilt of a man caught in a lie but trying to play innocent. "God, Alessia, I..." He reached for me. "Things with the family have been so crazy lately, I completely..." "It's fine." I subtly pulled away, refusing to inhale the scent of another woman on him. "I understand." "No, it's not." He grabbed my hand, his grip tight. "We have to celebrate. Let's go to the stables. Right now. You love it there. We can ride and watch the sunrise, just like we used to." Used to? The last time we went riding together was three years ago. Back then, he would kiss the shell of my ear and tell me I was his queen. Now he couldn't even remember our anniversary. But I nodded. "Okay. That sounds nice." To ensure my escape, I had to keep playing the part of the clueless wife. At four in the morning, Dante tried to manufacture romance as he drove, playing our wedding song—"La Vie en Rose." "I'm so sorry I forgot, baby," he said, glancing at me. "You know how much I love you." I didn't answer. My hand brushed against the side compartment and felt a piece of fabric. A cheap, black lace thong fell out. It wasn’t mine. I pretended not to notice and pushed it back into place. I had no interest in his meaningless excuses. The sky was just beginning to lighten when we reached the stables. We rode for about half an hour, with Dante trying his best to recreate the affection of the past. He’d sneak pictures of me as I rode by, loudly praise my form, and point out the sunrise with some cheesy romantic line. One of the stable hands played along. "Mr. Moretti, you spoil the Mrs. rotten. Enough to make a man jealous!" I said nothing. Then his phone rang. A special ringtone. "Sorry, baby. Gotta take this. Urgent family business." He gave me a quick peck on the forehead and trotted his horse to the other end of the paddock. I quietly slipped back to the car, where Dante kept his burner phone. The screen was lit up with a synced chat between him and "Kitten." Kitten: I miss you, daddy… Can we try that new position you were talking about tomorrow night? With the new toy? Dante: Of course. Looks like I didn’t wear you out enough last time. Kitten: Don’t you like it when I’m insatiable? I’ll even wear that black lace set you love. I promise to make you happy. Dante: I’m looking forward to the show. More messages flooded the screen, filthy and detailed, planning their next rendezvous. They had a date for tonight. The presidential suite at the Westin. He’d already ordered champagne and red roses. When Dante returned, he slipped back into his role as the devoted husband. "Couldn't see you for a second there, I was starting to panic," he said, riding up beside me and taking my hand. "Thought you'd left me." My stomach churned. Bile rose in my throat. "Alessia? You okay?" Dante looked at me with concern. "You're pale." I couldn't take it anymore. The dirty texts, the thong reeking of another woman, his hypocritical concern—it all made me physically sick. I threw open the car door and scrambled out, doubling over in the bushes as I vomited violently. Everything in my stomach came up, as if I was trying to purge the last five years of my marriage. "Alessia!" Dante shouted, jumping out of the car. "What's wrong?" I knelt on the ground, heaving, tears mixing with the bile streaming from my mouth. It wasn't just sadness. It was rage. Chapter 3 "Baby, you must have eaten something bad," Dante said, gently helping me back into the car and handing me a bottle of water. "We should go to the hospital." I shook my head, affecting an air of weakness. "No, it's fine. I think I've just been stressed lately." He made a thoughtful suggestion. "There’s a gala tomorrow night. It could be fun, a good way to relax. Would Mrs. Moretti do me the honor?" A cold, sharp idea formed in my mind. I smiled. "Of course. Can we have it at the Westin? I love their food." A flash of panic crossed Dante’s eyes, but he quickly masked it. "Of course, baby. Anything you want. I'll have my guys book it right away." I knew what he was thinking. If we both showed up at that hotel, the risk of his mistress being seen was too high. But he couldn't refuse a "sick" wife's small request, could he? Back at the mansion, Dante was unusually attentive. He made me chicken soup, insisted I stay in bed, and checked on me every hour. He was playing the part of the perfect husband. But on his burner phone, I saw the message he sent to Jenna: "Change of plans. Meet me in the private wine cellar downstairs tomorrow. 8:30 p.m. It's more secluded. More thrilling. Imagine it… making love among all those expensive bottles of red..." Kitten: "Sounds amazing! I'll wear that red dress you love. And nothing underneath." The sound of the shower turning off in the bathroom brought me back. I quickly put the phone away. When Dante walked out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist, water tracing paths down his muscular chest, the sight that would have made my heart race five years ago now only filled me with disgust. "Feeling any better?" He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to feel my forehead. I nodded, then pretended to remember something. "Oh, I almost forgot." I pulled the blue box from the nightstand. "I got you this for our anniversary. I was so excited to give it to you." He started to open it, but I stopped him. I stroked his cheek. "I want you to wait a week to open it. Think of it as a little surprise, okay?" He looked at me, confused. "Why a week?" I gave him a mysterious smile. "Because by then, you'll understand what the gift truly means." Dante shrugged, placing the box in his nightstand drawer. "Alright. If that's what my wife wants." The next morning, Dante was up early, making me breakfast in the kitchen. Fried eggs, bacon, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and my favorite, a perfect espresso. A perfect breakfast from a perfect husband. Just then, the doorbell rang. One of Dante's men, Marco, stood on the doorstep, holding a plain brown paper bag. "Boss, the thing you asked for." Marco handed it over, his eyes darting around nervously. But I saw it—a small velvet box peeking out. Probably something for his little tryst. After Marco left, Dante returned to the table and continued eating as if nothing had happened. I stirred my coffee, my voice casual. "Dante, can I ask you something?" "Anything." I looked up at him. "How important do you think loyalty is in a marriage?" Dante’s fork paused in mid-air for a second before he continued cutting his egg. "It's everything. Loyalty is the foundation of our world." "Is it?" I tilted my head, playing the part of the naive wife. "So you've never betrayed me?" Dante immediately put down his fork and reached for the silver cross he wore around his neck. It was a gift from his father, a sacred object to the Moretti family. "I swear on my father's grave," he said, looking me straight in the eye, his tone solemn and sincere. "I will only ever be loyal to you, Alessia. You are my wife, my queen, the only woman in my life." His performance was flawless. If I didn't know the truth, I might have been moved to tears. "So," I said, lifting my coffee cup, my eyes turning cold as steel, "what happens if you do betray me?" Dante, completely oblivious, answered with a relaxed smile. "Then let me lose everything. Let me wander this earth like a ghost." "Of course, my love," I whispered, the coffee bitter on my tongue. "I'll hold you to that." Chapter 4 "I want to sit in the back." On the way to the hotel, Dante looked at me, confused. "Why? You always sit up front." Because I couldn't stand to sit in the passenger seat his little whore had occupied countless times. The thought of Jenna sitting there, cooing at him, begging him to pull over so they could fuck, made me want to vomit. But I just said, "I feel like having more space." Dante thought nothing of it. As Dante led me into the hotel, his arm around my waist, other patrons stared with a mixture of envy and awe. In our world, being Mrs. Moretti was a dream for countless women. If only they knew the price. Several of the family's Capos came over to greet us. Dante kept his hand on the small of my back, poured me wine, and whispered in my ear, "This bottle is worth twenty thousand dollars, but even it can't compare to your beauty." Once, words like that would have made me blush. Now, they just made me want to laugh. In his mind, my worth was clearly less than that of a twenty-two-year-old bartender. Dinner went smoothly, at least on the surface. Dante talked about family business, occasionally turning to me for my opinion. I played the part of the perfect wife: elegant, intelligent, involved just enough but never overstepping. At 8:20, Dante glanced at his watch. "Darling, I need to go downstairs and meet a business associate. Shouldn't be more than half an hour." "Of course," I said with a smile. "Take your time." A few minutes later, I excused myself, claiming to feel unwell. Once out of the ballroom, I called Dante. He answered on the third ring. "Hey, baby. What's up?" Dante's voice sounded a little rushed. "I'm feeling a bit dizzy," I said, feigning weakness. "When will you be back?" "Soon. Just give me... fifteen more minutes." His voice suddenly became muffled, as if he was struggling to control something. And then I heard it. A woman's low giggle, soft and seductive. And the distinct, metallic jingle of small bells on some kind of toy. Jingle, jingle. "Dante? Where are you?" I kept my tone worried. "In... in the office," he answered, panting. "The associate just arrived." "Mmm… Dante…" a woman moaned in the background. My hand tightened around the phone, my knuckles turning white. The voice was unmistakably Jenna's. "Baby, you sound strange," I said, deliberately dragging out the call. "Are you sure everything's okay?" "Of course... ah..." Dante struggled to keep his voice steady, but I could tell exactly what he was doing. "This associate is just... difficult to handle." "Oh yes, Dante... right there..." Jenna's voice came through, muffled. She clearly had no idea he was on the phone. "Come on, kitten," Dante's voice dropped to a growl. "I want you right now..." Jingle, jingle. The damn bells were getting faster. I quickly hit the record button, calmly documenting it all. "Dante? Dante?" I called out, pretending to be anxious. "What? Oh, sorry, baby," he said, breathless, back on the line. "Bad signal. I'll be right up." "Okay. I love you," I said in my sweetest voice. "I love you too." The lie rolled off his tongue so easily, so practiced. After hanging up, I saved the recording and walked back to our table as if nothing had happened. Forty minutes later, Dante returned to the restaurant. His hair was a little messy and his tie was crooked, but he had a satisfied smile on his face. "Sorry to keep you waiting, baby." He sat down beside me. "That associate was a tough nut to crack." I turned to him and offered a perfect smile. "It's fine. Business is important." He reached out and took my hand. "You're the best wife in the world." Just then, my phone buzzed. Passport and ticket confirmed. Activates in five days. All set. I quickly locked the screen, but Dante caught a glimpse of the words. "Passport?" He looked at me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. "Alessia, are you going somewhere?" Chapter 5 I let out a small laugh, as if he'd asked a silly question. "My friend Maria wants to go to Europe, but her passport expired. She was asking me about the renewal process. You know how she is with these things." My tone was light and natural, with no hint of a lie. Dante's expression immediately relaxed, and he even looked a little sheepish. "Sorry, baby. For a second there, I thought you were planning on leaving me." His words made the other wives at nearby tables shoot me looks of pure envy. See how devoted Dante is to her. I hid a cold smile behind my wine glass. To the outside world, we were still the perfect, enviable couple. At ten-thirty, the dinner party was winding down. When we were the last two left in the restaurant, Dante came to my side, reaching out to hug me. "Tonight was perfect." As he moved closer, a mix of scents hit me—cigar smoke, expensive whiskey, and… that damn cheap jasmine perfume. Jenna's scent. The sickeningly sweet fragrance was radiating from my husband's collar and cuffs. He hadn't even tried to hide it. Or maybe he just didn't realize he reeked of her. The churning in my stomach returned, stronger this time. I shoved him away, clapped a hand over my mouth, and ran for the restroom. "Alessia? Baby?" Dante followed, his voice laced with concern. I knelt before the toilet, dry-heaving violently. My stomach was empty, but the bitter bile and uncontrollable rage kept coming. "What's wrong? Are you allergic to the seafood?" Dante knelt beside me, trying to help me up. "Or did you have too much wine?" The scent of him, of her, washed over me again, and another wave of nausea hit. "Don't... don't touch me!" I pushed his hand away, my body trembling. "Is it the smoke on me?" Dante frowned. "Sorry, I had a few cigars during that meeting." Hearing that lie, the fire inside me finally exploded. I slowly stood up, splashing cold water on my face, and met his eyes in the mirror. He stood there, the picture of innocent concern, as if he truly had no idea what he'd done. "Cigars?" My voice was a low growl. "You know damn well what this is about!" Dante froze, stunned. He had never seen me lose control like this. "Alessia, what are you talking about?" I realized I'd gone too far and forced myself to calm down. "Nothing. My stomach just hurts." The next morning, Dante insisted on taking me to the hospital. The doctor examined me. "Based on your symptoms, it seems to be stress-induced gastritis. It’s often caused by emotional distress or pressure. Has Mrs. Moretti been under any particular stress lately?" Dante frowned. "No. We had a wonderful time just yesterday." "Well, perhaps it's seasonal," the doctor said, starting to write a prescription. "I'll give her something to settle her stomach." Just then, Dante's phone rang. He glanced at the screen, his expression tensing. "Sorry, it's an important call." "Go ahead," I said flatly. Dante stepped into the hallway to take the call, and I could hear his hushed voice. "What? Now? No, I'm with my wife at the doctor's... Alright, I get it." He came back, an apologetic look on his face. "Baby, I am so sorry. One of my men needs to drop off some important documents. I have to run downstairs to get them. I'll be back in five minutes." "Go," I said, nodding with fake understanding. Dr. Ricci continued his diagnosis, but my attention was elsewhere. I walked to the window, pretending to admire the view, but my eyes were locked on the street below. A few minutes later, I saw Dante. But he wasn't waiting by the entrance for any documents. Instead, he strode quickly across the street and straight into the building opposite us—a private OB-GYN clinic. As I watched him disappear inside, the anger I felt was replaced by a cold, numb sense of release. Just then, my phone vibrated. A text from an unknown number. [Sorry, Mrs. Moretti. Looks like he can't be with you today. All it takes is one call from me, and he comes running like a dog.] Chapter 6 Another message followed immediately. It was an ultrasound picture. A tiny gestational sac was clearly visible on the black-and-white image. In the top right corner, it read: 8 weeks. [Surprised? You know, when I told Dante the news, he was as wild as an animal.] [Oh, and by the way, he really is an animal with me. Not so… boring… like he is with you. Is he always so restrained when you two do it? Hahaha, that’s because he doesn’t even want to touch you! But with me… God, I can barely handle his passion!] I leaned against the window, the world spinning around me. The child we had hoped for for five years was now growing inside his mistress. Maybe I should congratulate them. Another text arrived. [By the way, he’s taking me to Vegas tomorrow. We’re going to have a romantic little getaway. ~] I turned off my phone and faced Dr. Ricci. "Doctor, I think I need to leave now." "But your husband—" "I'll tell him myself." I went to my lawyer's office. I needed a divorce agreement. "Regarding the division of assets, what are your requirements?" Mr. Blackstone asked. I knew the Moretti family's power. I didn't want a long, drawn-out fight over money. "I only want the legally mandated 50% of our shared assets during the marriage. As soon as the money is in my account, I want you to donate all of it." All I wanted was my freedom. A flicker of surprise crossed Blackstone's face before he nodded. Two hours later, I walked out of the law firm with the divorce papers in my hand. The Chicago sky was overcast, promising a storm. My phone rang. Dante. "Baby, I am so, so sorry. That business took longer than I expected. Where are you now?" "Home," I lied. "Okay, I'm on my way. I'll be there soon. But..." His voice turned hesitant. "I might have to go to Vegas tomorrow for some urgent family business. It's complicated, and I might not be back until next week." His and Jenna's romantic getaway. "Okay," I replied, my voice so calm it surprised even me. "You're not mad?" Dante sounded surprised. "I know it's not great timing, but family business... you understand." "I understand." "Alessia," his voice suddenly turned tender. "I love you. You know that, right?" I looked down at the divorce papers in my hand and asked the question one last time. "Dante," I asked softly, "could you ever love someone else?" "What?" He laughed. "Baby, what are you worried about? How could I ever love someone else?" "But if... hypothetically, I'm just saying, if something ever went wrong between us—" "It won't," he cut me off, his voice laced with a disturbing possessiveness. "Alessia, listen to me. As long as your name is Alessia Moretti, you can never leave me. You are my wife. My woman. In this city, no one would dare touch you, and there is nowhere you could hide from me." A quiet voice in my head answered: My name isn't Alessia Moretti anymore. My name is Ava. "And what if I wanted to leave?" He laughed again, a sound full of arrogant confidence. "The most I'd give you is a three-day head start. Then I'd come find you. I told you, as long as you're Mrs. Moretti, I will drag you back from wherever you run. You can't shake me, baby. You can never shake me." I hung up the phone and stood on the Chicago street, looking at the distant skyscrapers. I didn't know if he could find me in three days. All I knew was that in three days, I would be free. Chapter 7 Three days left. I sat at my vanity, staring at my reflection. Long black hair, perfect makeup, the diamond necklace Dante gave me around my neck—all so perfect, all so fake. My phone buzzed again. A photo. Dante and Jenna in a luxury suite in Las Vegas. Champagne, rose petals, and their bodies tangled together. [He said only a hotel this lavish is good enough for me and my baby. It's even nicer than your honeymoon suite.] I ignored it and called my private advisor at my Swiss bank. "Mrs. Moretti, a pleasure." "I need to convert all the funds in my account into cash and portable assets. Within the day." Two days left. I met Maria for a final goodbye. She was my only real friend. "Alessia, you look... unwell," Maria said, her eyes full of concern. "I'm leaving Chicago," I said, getting straight to the point. "For a business trip?" "For good." Maria paused for a moment, then simply nodded. "I see. Do you need my help?" That was why I loved her. She never pried, only offered support. "No. But..." I handed her a small package. "This is for you." Maria opened it. Inside was an emerald necklace worth two hundred thousand dollars. "Alessia, this is too much—" "No, it's a gift for a true friend," I said, hugging her. "Take care of yourself, Maria." As I walked out of the museum, I got another message. [He bought me this three-million-dollar bracelet at an auction tonight. Beautiful, isn't it? You'd better enjoy your last few days as Mrs. Moretti.] I blocked the number. The last day. Three a.m. The entire mansion was as silent as a tomb. I stood in my walk-in closet, looking at the millions of dollars worth of clothes, jewelry, and bags. Hermès Birkins, Chanel suits, Cartier diamonds… each one had once made me feel like a successful woman. Now they just looked like a gilded cage. The charity workers arrived promptly at four. I helped them load everything into their truck. "Mrs. Moretti, are you sure you want to donate all of this?" one of the young volunteers asked, her eyes wide. "These things... they're priceless." "Exactly. Which is why they should go to people who actually need them." After they left, I took three large boxes and drove to an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city. It had an old, decommissioned incinerator. One by one, I tossed in the "evidence." Our wedding photos, the love letters Dante had written me, souvenirs from our honeymoon… I threw them all into the furnace. The flames danced in the darkness, devouring every last trace of Alessia Moretti. The only thing I kept was my violin. The 1920s Italian instrument that had been with me since childhood was one of the few things that was truly mine. As I watched the fire die down, I felt a sense of relief I had never known before. Alessia Moretti was dead. As dawn broke, I got into the car that would take me to the airport. Just as we pulled up, I saw a familiar black Maserati pulling away from another terminal. Dante was back. At that exact moment, my phone rang. "Baby! I'm back!" Dante's voice was as excited as a child's. "Vegas business wrapped up faster than I thought. I'll be home soon. I can't wait to see that surprise gift you got me." A surprise. It was certainly a surprise. "I'm waiting for you," I said calmly, watching his car disappear into the distance. "I love you, Alessia. Wait for me." I hung up, popped out the SIM card, and threw it and the phone into a trash can. I clutched my new passport. The photo was of me, but the name was Ava Chen. A new identity. A new beginning. I took one last look at Chicago, then walked resolutely toward the boarding gate. Goodbye, Alessia Moretti. Hello, Ava Chen. Chapter 8 (Dante's POV) Dante had planned to go straight home. Jenna wrapped her arms around his waist, whispering in his ear, "Don't go yet… I'm not done playing." Her fingers traced patterns on his chest, her voice seductive. "Besides, you said it yourself, she's just a boring porcelain doll. What's one more night? You can go back tomorrow." Dante hesitated for a second. It was true. Alessia would never be this forward, would never beg him to stay. In five years of marriage, she had always waited patiently, never complaining about his late nights or business trips. "Fine," he said, setting down his luggage. "But just for a few hours. I have to be back in Chicago tonight." Hours later, when Dante surfaced from the haze of sex and champagne, it was already the next morning. "Dammit." He glanced at his watch and shot out of bed. He frantically dialed Alessia's number to explain, but was met with a mechanical voice: "The number you have dialed is not in service…" Not in service? Alessia never turned her phone off. As Mrs. Moretti, her phone was on 24/7. It was a rule of the family. A strange sense of unease began to creep into his gut. "What's wrong, darling?" Jenna strolled over, lazily wrapped in a silk robe. "You look awful." "Alessia's phone is off." Dante frowned, dialing again and again with the same result. "Maybe she's sleeping?" Jenna said, unconcerned. "Or practicing that violin? You're always saying how much she loves her boring little hobbies." But the unease in Dante's chest was growing stronger. He immediately started dressing. "You're just going to leave me?" Jenna's voice sharpened. "Dante, after what we just did, you're running back to her?" "She's my wife," Dante said, not even looking back as he packed. "I have to go." "Wife?" Jenna sneered. "That's not what you were saying in bed. You said she was cold, boring, nothing but a suitable piece of decoration—" "Enough!" Dante whirled around, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Just then, his phone rang. It was his consigliere. "Boss, you have the capos meeting at eight. East Side territory. They're waiting on your decision." "Postpone it," Dante said without hesitation. "But Boss, it's urgent—" "I said postpone it!" Dante's tone was absolute. "Ten a.m. tomorrow. Reschedule." He hung up and continued packing, completely ignoring Jenna's souring expression. "Dante!" Jenna, not daring to truly anger him, resorted to her best weapon: playing the victim. "Have you forgotten what you said these last three days? You said you loved me, that you regretted marrying her, you said—" "It was pillow talk," Dante cut her off, his voice like ice. He turned to face her, his gaze arctic. "In the real world, Jenna, you need to remember your place." He walked toward her, the sheer force of his presence making her instinctively back away. "Alessia is my wife. She will always be Mrs. Moretti. And you..." He stopped, his voice low and menacing. "You are just a distraction. Something that can be replaced at any time. Do you understand?" The color drained from Jenna's face, and tears welled in her eyes. "You... how can you say that? A minute ago you were—" "That was then. This is now." Dante grabbed his coat and headed for the door without a backward glance. "Don't call me for the next few days. I'm going to be with Alessia." Bang! The suite door slammed shut, leaving Jenna to collapse onto the luxurious sofa, tears streaming down her face. Dante returned to the villa he shared with Alessia. From the outside, the house was dark. "Dammit." The unease in his heart intensified. "Alessia? I'm home!" Only a hollow echo answered him. The living room was empty. The master bedroom was empty. The entire house was as silent as a tomb.