3 months since my husband Julian Moretti disappeared. I walked into his favorite den. The grief so deep it stole the air from my lungs.
I just wanted to breathe him in to find any trace of him that was left.
Then I heard it, a familiar laugh and the soft moan of a woman. Through a crack in the door, I saw him.
My husband, the man missing for 3 months, had his hand tangled in another woman’s hair.
Baby, just a little longer, he said. Soon as I siphon enough cash from the family’s books, we’re gone.
You and me. In his arms was Bianca from the Rosso family. What about your wife?
She purred. Let her play the grieving widow. She’s nothing without me anyway. My fists clenched.
The world went quiet, my blood turning to ice. The next day, I put the word out to the entire family.
I’m holding a memorial mass for my husband. At the service, he stormed in. A ghost returned from the grave, roaring that he was alive and there to take back what was his.
But I was standing next to his uncle, Dante Moretti. And all I did was stare him down.
Then explain, I said, my voice cutting through the silence. Explain the woman. Explain the money.
Explain your betrayal to the family and to me. Moretti territory. No uninvited guests. It was the first time I’d set foot in Julian’s private den in 3 months.
I just wanted to feel his presence, to remember his warmth. But then I heard his laugh.
It came from a room in the back, followed by the sweet low moans of a woman.
Julian, you’re a genius. The woman’s voice was sickly sweet. Faking your own death and getting that little artist wife of yours to fall for it.
Saraphina. Julian scoffed. She’s a pretty empty doll my father made me marry. A political move to strengthen our position.
Now I’m finally free. Ice flooded my veins. Through the crack in the door, I saw him, my husband, dead for 3 months.
He was caressing a blond’s face, his eyes full of a love he never showed me.
Bianca Roso, daughter of our main rivals. Honey, are you sure no one will find out?
Bianca was sitting on his lap, her fingers tracing the tattoo on his chest. The Iris flower.
He told me it was a symbol of our eternal love. A [ __ ] lie.
Don’t worry. I’ve got it all planned, he said, kissing her neck. Once the dust settles, we’re off to Europe.
With the money I’m pulling from the family vault, we’ll live like kings. And Saraphina.
Let her keep playing the widow. All she knows is how to paint. Without me, she’s nothing.
My fists clenched, my nails digging so deep into my palms, I could feel blood.
The pain kept me sharp. I slipped out of the club and got back in my car.
My hands were shaking, but I dialed the number for Saint Andrews Church. Father Gabriel, it’s Saraphina.
My voice was steady, betraying none of the storm raging inside me. I need to arrange a memorial mass for my husband.
A full formal service. My child, are you sure? That would mean I’m sure. Please inform the key members of the family.
Tell them Julian Moretti’s widow wishes to pray for his soul. After I hung up, I started sending formal notices to every carpo in the family.
An hour later, my phone rang. Saraphina, are you out of your [ __ ] mind?
It was Tony, one of Julian’s guys. Call off the goddamn mass. Julian’s alive. Is he?
My voice was sweet as honey. That’s wonderful news. If he’s alive, why doesn’t he come and tell me himself?
There was a beat of silence. Then his voice dropped, turning dangerous. Be careful, Sephina.
You’re playing with things you don’t understand. Is that a threat, Tony? I laughed softly.
Don’t forget whose wife I am. I hung up and drove back to our mansion on Lakeshore Drive.
The sharp click of my heels was the only sound in the cavernous empty house.
I went straight to Julian’s study and punched in the code to his private safe.
It was half empty. His collection of custom Berettas was gone. The platinum ring, the Moretti family heirloom was also missing.
All that was left were a few useless papers and empty gun racks. It finally hit me.
All those nights I spent lighting candles and praying for him. He’d been sneaking back in, taking the things he actually cared about, and I was never on that list.
The tears finally fell, and I started to laugh. A quiet broken sound in the dark.
The next morning, I sat in the study and pulled up the mansion security feed.
3 months of footage. I needed to see it all. The days flew by on the screen.
The first month, the second, and then I saw it. July 15th, 2:00 A.M. Julian sneaking in the back door with Bianca.
They went straight upstairs into my art studio, my studio, my sanctuary. I fast forwarded, my heart pounding.
I watched them [ __ ] on the floor of my studio, right in front of my most prized painting, Venus Reborn.
The one that took me a year to complete. They tossed it aside using the canvas as a godamn drop cloth.
You son of a [ __ ] I seethed. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. Safina.
[snorts] The voice was low and grally. I knew it instantly. Dante, Julian’s uncle. The real brains of the Moretti family.
Dante. Julian’s alive, he said. Straight to the point. I assume you already know. I do.
Good. In an hour, Marco is bringing you something. You’ll need it. Why are you helping me?
A long pause. Because this family was built on loyalty. Julian has forgotten that. An hour later, Dante’s top enforcer, Marco, was at my door.
He handed me a black encrypted hard drive. The old man said, “You’d find a use for these.”
I plugged it in. Highresolution photos filled the screen. The Caribbean, a luxury yacht, Julian and Bianca kissing on the deck, the blue sea sparkling behind them.
The timestamp was from the second week after he disappeared. Then came the bank records.
Massive transfers from a secret Moretti account to an offshore company in the Kiman Islands.
“Perfect,” I whispered. At 300 P.M., my phone rang again. “Call off the mass,” Bianca hissed.
“Call it off now or Julian will make you regret it when he gets back.”
“Oh, is he coming back?” I asked, my tone light like we were discussing the weather.
“That’s great. I’ve been dying to see my husband. Stop playing dumb, Saraphina. You know he I hung up on her.
The next evening, I dressed in a black Chanel suit and a string of pearls.
Elegant, composed, a true Moretti wife. Roso’s place in Little Italy was buzzing with noise.
This was Bianca’s family turf. I pushed open the heavy glass doors. The chatter died instantly.
Every eye in the place was on me, sharp and wary. I’m here to see Biana, I told the mountain of a man guarding the door.
You got an appointment, he grunted, looking me up and down. I pulled a gold embossed card from my clutch.
Tell her Mrs. Moretti is here. 5 minutes later, I was led to a private room in the back.
Bianca sat at a round table, her blonde hair in an elegant twist, her lips blood red.
Next to her was a man in his 50s with a bulldog face. Her father, I presumed.
Saraphina, Bianca sneered. To what do we owe the pleasure? Just delivering something, I said, sinking into the chair across from her.
I pulled the invitation from my clutch sealed with the Moretti family’s morning crest and slid it across the table.
I came to invite you to my husband’s memorial mass. The color drained from Biana’s face.
After all, I continued, my voice sweet as poison. You were Julian’s most loyal partner, weren’t you?
Watch your mouth. Bianca’s father, Antonio, snalled, shooting to his feet. You’re in my house.
Oh, I know exactly where I am, I said, rising gracefully. I’m here to mourn a traitor.
Tomorrow, 3:00, holy name, Cathedral. I trust you’ll both be there. Antonio’s face went purple.
He grabbed Bianca’s arm, his voice a low growl. We’re leaving. I smiled sweetly. Why the rush?
Dead men don’t bite. Her father shot me a look that could kill before slamming the door behind them.
That night, I left the city condo Julian and I had shared and moved back to the main family estate on Lake Michigan.
It sat on 50 acres of private land, surrounded by high walls with armed guards patrolling the perimeter.
This was safe. Smart move. Dante was waiting for me in the estate’s marble foyer.
He wore a black suit and his presence was so powerful it was almost suffocating.
You’ll need the protection for the next few days. Julian knows he’s lost his mind.
A cold smile touched Dante’s lips. He called Tony 17 times last night, threatening to kill everyone, including me, especially you.”
I nodded. I expected as much. For the next two days, I focused on planning the funeral.
Black wreaths, memorial cards bearing the Moretti crest, even a custom guest book. Every detail was perfect, as if Julian were truly gone.
The evening before the mass, Marco came with an update. Boss Bianca’s been making noise at the private card rooms, telling anyone who listened that Julian might still be breathing.
And the reaction, everyone’s waiting, watching. No one’s seen a body after all. I smiled.
Good. Tomorrow they’ll see a living one. On the day of the mass, I wore a black dress customade in Milan.
Silk fitted at the waist paired with a black pearl necklace my grandmother left me.
A black lace veil covered my face making me look like a traditional Sicilian widow.
Ready? Dante asked his voice a low rumble. He stood straight in a black Ammani suit, a Moretti crest pinned to his lapel.
Ready. I handed the encrypted drive to Marco. The projector is set up. If Julian shows his face, you know what to do.
Holy Name Cathedral was solemn, light filtering through the stained glass windows, painting the air with holy colors.
Dante arrived first. He walked straight to the front pew and stood beside me. A silent, unshakable pillar.
His presence alone sent a clear message to everyone. He was with me. The key members of the family began to arrive.
The capos, the old guard, the heads of every district. Their faces were a mix of confusion and caution.
Saraphina, is [clears throat] this really necessary? Salvator, one of Julian’s closest men, tried to reason with me.
If Julian really is alive, then why isn’t he here to tell me himself? Salvator.
My voice, muffled by the veil, was thick with a grief that was all too real.
It’s been 3 months. 3 months. Salvatoreé opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Dante shot him a cold look, and he immediately backed down. At 300 P.M. Sharp, the memorial mass began.
Father Gabriel walked to the pulpit and started to pray for Julian’s soul. The cathedral was silent, save for the priest’s solemn voice echoing off the stone walls.
Then it was my turn to speak. I slowly rose to my feet, about to walk to the front.
Stop. The shriek ripped through the sacred silence of the church. Bianca stumbled in, her blonde hair a mess, her eyes wild with anger and fear.
“What are you doing?” She shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Julian’s photo on the altar.
“He’s not dead. Julian’s not dead.” “Miss Rosso, please be quiet,” Father Gabriel said with a frown.
“Quiet!” Bianca lunged at me and ripped the veil from my face. “You [ __ ] You evil [ __ ] You knew he was alive and you’re cursing him to hell.
Gasps filled the cathedral. I looked at her twisted face and said calmly, “I’m simply praying for my husband.
If he’s truly alive, why isn’t he here to stop this himself?” “Because he,” Bianca stopped, realizing she was about to say too much.
Just then, the heavy oak doors of the cathedral were thrown open. A figure stumbled forward, silhouetted against the light.
Julian, but not the man who’d left. His suit was rumpled, his face bruised, jaw dark with stubble.
Julian Moretti stood in the doorway, his voice cracking as he screamed, “Shina, stop this.
I’m not dead. I’m back.” Julian stumbled towards the altar, his arms open wide as if to embrace me.
My angel, I’m back. His voice trembled, tears welling in his eyes. I thought I’d never see you again.
I took a deliberate step back just beyond his reach. 3 months. My voice was ice.
Where have you been, Julian? I was taken, he cried, turning to the whole church.
The Torinos, they grabbed me, tortured me, tried to get our secrets. Taken? I let out a soft, humilous laugh.
So, who saved you? I I escaped on my own. Julian’s eyes darted around. I fought my way back to you.
Really? I tilted my head, my voice as sweet as poison. And this good Samaritan who saved you from your kidnappers.
Was it Bianca? The color drained from Julian’s face. I don’t know what you’re talking about.
You don’t. I nodded to Marco. The massive screen at the front of the church, originally intended for a memorial slideshow, flickered to life.
The first photo, Julian on a luxury yacht in the Caribbean, his arms wrapped around Bianca, kissing her on the deck against a backdrop of turquoise water and blinding sun.
A stunned silence fell over the pews, followed by a collective gasp. “That’s fake,” Julian yelled.
“It’s doctorred.” The second photo, the two of them walking hand in hand on a private beach, Bianca in a bikini, Julian shirtless and smiling.
The third photo, the presidential suite of a five-star hotel. The two of them locked in a passionate embrace on the bed.
Enough. Julian lunged for the projector. These are all fake. Fake? My voice carried clear and cold through the chapel.
Then I guess this is fake, too. I pushed up my sleeve, revealing the small tattoo on my wrist.
A delicate iris identical to the one on Julian’s chest. Look at the tattoo on your chest.
Julian, tell everyone what it means. He instinctively covered his chest, then, as if to prove a point, ripped open his shirt.
The Iris tattoo was still there, but it had been altered. A highdefinition close-up appeared on the screen beside him.
Where the heart of the flower should have been was a small sharp dagger. The Rosso family crest.
A collective gasp swept through the pews. No, that’s not possible. Julian stared down at his own chest as if seeing the change for the very first time.
When did you get it changed, Julian? I walked toward him, closing the distance with each step.
During your first week missing or the second? Panic flashed in his eyes. He glanced around seeing only cold fury and disgust in the faces of our family.
I can explain. Explain what I pulled a thick file from my clutch. How you betrayed the family or how you betrayed me.
Seeina, listen to me. Julian’s voice turned sharp with rage. You drove me to it.
You and those old men plotting to take what’s mine. The church grew heavy, dangerous.
Accusing the family’s capos of plotting was a death sentence. Plotting. I smiled faintly and opened the file.
The title was emlazed across the top. Declaration of disavowel. The words were formal, but I read them aloud, each one a hammer blow.
For acts of treason against the family in collusion with rival powers. Julian Moretti is hereby disavowed, stripped of all inheritance, and cast out from this family.
Julian snatched the document from my hand, his eyes flying across the text. Bank accounts frozen, properties seized, family protection revoked.
He had nothing. His hands began to shake. The papers slipped from his fingers, scattering across the marble floor.
How could you do this to me? His voice cracked, climbing into a hysterical shriek.
Sir, Fina, you have no right. No right. Julian scrambled to pick up the scattered pages, his face twisted in a sn.
It was an act, said a lie. I was playing her to protect us. To protect the family.
Protect the family. I sneered. Yes. He clung to that lie like a lifeline, his voice growing desperate.
The Rossos have been trying to move in on our territory for years. I pretended to be with Biana to get their intel.
Whispers broke out in the pews. A few of the older faces in the pews softened with uncertainty.
Saraphina, you’re my wife. Julian fell to his knees before me, grabbing the hem of my dress.
You have to believe me. Help me explain to the family. It was for the bigger picture.
The bigger picture. I looked down at him, my expression unreadable. What bigger picture required you to carve another woman’s crest into your skin or transfer millions from the family’s offshore accounts?
That money was bait to earn Bianca’s trust. Was it for the first time? Dante, who had been a silent, imposing figure until now, spoke.
He didn’t say a word. He simply raised a hand, giving a curt signal. A recording crackled to life, each word slicing through the hallowed silence of the church.
“Darling, are you sure you want to give me something this important?” Biana’s sultry voice purred.
“Of course, my love.” Julian’s voice was deep with affection. Pier 47. The shipping routes run every Tuesday and Friday at 1000 P.M.
It’s the Moretti family’s most important channel. Think of it as the key to everything, to our future.
The recording stopped. The church was dead silent. Pier 47 was the family’s lifeline, responsible for 40% of our cash flow.
A secret known only to the inner circle. Every eye in the room turned to Julian.
The anger in the room had curdled. It was something colder now. The promise of death.
No, it’s not like that. Julian’s voice trembled. I didn’t sign it. Dante’s voice was low, cutting through the silence like a shard of ice.
And then get the hell out of my city. He took a step forward, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed Julian whole, or the next mass held in your name will be a real one.
Julian looked up at Dante into eyes that held the absolute certainty of death. No one doubted he would keep that promise.
“I,” Julian’s lips trembled. “I, Marco,” Dante said softly. Marco immediately stepped forward with a fountain pen.
Julian stared at the pen as if it were the Grim Reaper’s sythe. His hand shook so badly he could barely hold it, but he knew he had no other choice.
Saraphina. He gave me one last desperate look. I sign it. My voice was as calm as still water.
With a trembling hand, Julian signed his name to the documents. Every letter he wrote was a shovel full of dirt on his own grave.
Dante took the file, checked the signature, and handed it to me. It’s done. He motioned to the men behind him.
Two of Dante’s men moved in, hauling Julian to his feet by his arms. Wait.
Julian struggled, looking back at me at the altar. Saraphina. I turned my back to him, my eyes fixed on the stained glass image of Christ on the cross.
Saphina, I really do love you. Julian’s voice echoed through the church, filled with desperation and regret.
I didn’t turn around. My face was a mask of ice. After the mass, all I wanted was to leave.
The smart play was to keep my distance from Dante. I’d learned my lesson about men.
Saphina Dante’s voice came from behind me. We need to talk. About what? The transfer of assets Julian signed off on is complex.
There are loose ends I need your help to tie up. I had no choice.
Dante’s office was on the top floor of a skyscraper in the financial district. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the city, a river of light against the night sky.
Sit. He gestured to a leather sofa. I kept my distance, choosing an armchair farthest from him.
Nervous. Dante poured two whisies, sliding one across the low coffee table toward me. Relax.
I don’t bite much. I’m not nervous. Liar. He sat down across from me, his presence filling the space.
“Your hands haven’t stopped shaking. I quickly hid them in my lap. Damn him for being so observant.
Why did you help me?” I asked, getting straight to the point. “And don’t tell me it was for family honor.”
“Dante swirled the amber liquid in his glass.” “Julen was a liability,” he said, his words blunt.
“I saw it from the beginning. Weak, greedy. He possessed none of the qualities this family requires.
Then why not get rid of him sooner? The timing wasn’t right. Dante’s gaze was sharp.
Now it is. I need a real partner. A partner. The Moretti business is more than just street rackets.
We have massive investments in legitimate enterprises, fine art, galleries, antique trades. He leaned forward.
They need someone at the helm who knows what they’re doing. I understood. You want me to run the legitimate businesses, not to run them, Dante corrected.
To own them with me as an equal partner. Why me? Because you have talent, you have taste, and more importantly, he paused, his eyes holding mine.
You have something I need, loyalty. Watched him in silence trying to read the depths of his dark eyes.
But Dante was a locked book and only he held the key. I accept, I said finally.
A wise choice. Dante spoke first to our new partnership. Let me take you to dinner.
I expected a Michelin star restaurant or one of the high-end clubs the family frequented.
Instead, he drove me to a quiet street in Little Italy. Noner Isabella’s, a tiny, unassuming restaurant with a narrow storefront and only a few tables.
Here, I asked, confused. Trust me. The owner was a woman in her 70s with a cloud of white hair and a kind smile.
She saw Dante and immediately greeted him with a flood of warm Italian. Isabella, I’ve brought a friend to try your specialty.
Dante replied in fluent Italian. We sat at a small corner table. There were no menus.
Isabella just brought out a steaming platter of Sicilian ratoto. The first bite stunned me.
This taste, it was the taste of my childhood. What is it? Dante noticed my expression.
My grandmother, she used to make it just like this, I said softly. Every weekend until I was 10.
And then and then I married Julian. A bitter smile touched my lips. He called it peasant food.
Said it wasn’t fit for a moretti. Dante’s eyes went cold. The man is a fool.
Yes, I agreed. He is. We finished the simple, perfect meal in silence. When we left, Isabella refused to take our money and packed up the rest of the rosato for me.
You come back anytime, Bella Senora, she said, her English thick with an Italian accent.
The car moved through the late night Chicago streets. The city lights a blur outside the window.
Thank you, I said. For what? For bringing back a part of me I thought I’d lost.
Dante glanced at me, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slight, almost imperceptible smile.
This is just the beginning. He pulled up to my downtown apartment building. He moved to get out and walked me to the door, but I held up a hand to stop him.
It’s okay. I can go up myself. You sure? I’m sure. I got out of the car and walked toward the entrance.
And then I saw him. There, curled up on the steps of my building was Julian.
Soaked to the bone. He looked like a half drowned stray. His hair was a mess.
His designer suit was torn and mud stained, and he was gaunt and broken. He looked up, and when he saw me, his dead eyes flickered back to life with a desperate spark of hope.
“Saraphina,” he scrambled to his feet, his voice a raw whisper. “You’re finally back, Saraphina.”
My angel Julian staggered toward me, reaching a grimy hand for my face. I recoiled in disgust.
Don’t touch me. Please, just let me explain. It was all Biana. It was all her.
She seduced me, Saraphina. It was like she put a spell on me. I wasn’t in my right mind.
A spell? I laughed without humor. And I suppose she forced you to make those bank transfers, too.
I just wanted to be free. Julian collapsed onto the cold, wet steps. 3 years of marriage.
I felt like I was in a cage. I needed to breathe. I needed You needed to be a traitor.
It wasn’t betrayal, he cried, grabbing the hem of my skirt. It was a moment of weakness.
The kind of mistake any man could make. A mistake any man could make? I knelt, bringing my face level with his.
Is betraying your own blood also. The kind of mistake any man would make? Julian’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
And the tattoo, I pointed to his chest. Changing my iris into her dagger. Was that a moment of weakness, too?
I can change it back, he said desperately. I can have her mark burned off.
I can get your iris again. It’s too late. No, it’s not. Julian suddenly grabbed my wrist.
His grip so tight it hurt. Saphina, we can start over. Just talk to Dante for me.
Get him to give me another chance. I swear I’ll never let go. My voice was still.
I love you. I really truly love you. Love. The laugh that escaped me was real this time.
Sharp and brittle. Julian, you don’t have the first clue what love is. What you call love is just a coward’s greed for power and money.
That’s not true. You never loved me. I continued, my voice as calm as if I was stating a scientific fact.
You loved the status I brought you. You loved the weight of the Moretti name.
Julian’s face twisted into an ugly mask of rage. What did you say? I said you’re a coward.
A greedy, selfish coward with no honor. Shut up, Julian exploded, his grip on my wrist tightening.
You have no right to say that to me. If your family hadn’t forced me to marry you, I never would have.
Never would have. What? A low voice cut through the night. Dante was standing there, silent as the grave under a lone street light.
He didn’t move forward. He just watched us, his eyes as cold and sharp as blades.
Julian dropped my wrist like he’d been burned. Uncle Dante, I I’m not your uncle.
Dante’s voice was quiet as he took a single step forward. You and I were never blood.
Julian scrambled backward on the pavement away from the approaching shadow. I wasn’t going to hurt her, but you did hurt her.
Dante’s voice was devoid of emotion, which made it all the more menacing. And you hurt the family.
I can make it right. I’ll do anything. You’re out of chances. Dante raised his hand and gave a simple sharp gesture.
Two men in black suits emerged from the shadows, flanking Julian without a sound. No wait, Julian realized what was happening, his voice rising to a shriek.
You can’t do this to me. I’m a Moretti. I’m blood. Dante’s correction was quiet, but it sliced through the night.
No, you were. The men moved in, grabbing Julian by his arms. Saraphina. Julian thrashed, his eyes wild with terror, reaching for me.
Save me for old times sake. I stood up and brushed the dust from my dress.
For old time’s sake. I looked down at him, my expression a blank canvas. Our old times ended the moment you carved another woman’s mark on your chest.
No, don’t do this. The guards started dragging him away into the darkness. Dante’s order was quiet, almost conversational.
Take care of him. Julian’s screams faded into the night until there was only silence.
Dante turned to me. He won’t bother you again. A month later, Julian was gone.
No one asked where, and no one cared. For the next month, our partnership fell into a rhythm.
We worked in nearperfect sync, running the family’s legitimate businesses together. The art investments, the galleries, the antique trade, the ventures Julian had ignored were now thriving under our control.
This Monet, the water liies, I said, pointing to an image in an auction catalog.
It’s a fake. The brush strokes are too controlled. They lack the free, chaotic energy of his later period.
Dante looked up from his desk, his eyes filled with a respect I was beginning to get used to.
You’re sure? 100%. I’ve seen the original at the museum at Eller Rangery. Then we pulled the bid.
He made a note on the file. You just saved us $5 million. Our days were like this.
Dante never questioned my professional judgment. And I was beginning to understand the ruthless brilliance of his business strategies.
We fit together. Two pieces of a puzzle I never knew existed. That’s enough for today, Dante said, closing a folder and checking his watch.
It’s getting late. I just want to look over the catalog for next week’s auction.
You’re relentless, he said, a low chuckle in his voice. No wonder Julian couldn’t keep up with you.
Don’t mention his name, I said, my good mood souring. My apologies. Dante stood and walked over to a large filing cabinet.
What do you need? I’ll get it for you. The market analysis report on 19th century Italian painters.
He opened a drawer and began sifting through files. Suddenly, a thin folder slipped out and fell to the floor, landing face up.
I bent to pick it up and saw the title. Chicago Institute of Art student exhibition sponsorship agreement.
Solo exhibition by Saraphina Romano. I froze. That was my solo show from my senior year of college back when I was still Sephina Romano before I’d ever met Julian.
What is this? I asked holding up the folder for the first time. Dante looked almost flustered.
He reached for it. It’s nothing, just an old file. Primary sponsor, Dante Moretti. Sponsorship amount: $100,000.
I read the words aloud, then looked up at him, my heart hammering in my chest.
“You knew me back then.” Dante was silent for a long moment before giving a slow, deliberate nod.
“Why?” “Because of your art,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
“Your painting, Venus Reborn. I saw it at a pre-show viewing, and it struck me.
I remembered that painting. It was my most personal piece, a self-portrait of my own reinvention after a painful past.
A 22-year-old who could paint with that much depth, Dante continued, his voice softening. It meant she’d already known Raal Payne and had the strength to remake herself from the ashes.
I wanted to know the woman who created it. So, you sponsored my show. It was more than that.
He stood up and came to stand in front of me, closing the space between us.
I kept track of you. Every exhibit, every piece, every award, including my wedding. The question was a whisper, especially your wedding.
A bitter, fleeting smile crossed his face. I knew Julian wasn’t good enough for you, but it was a family arrangement.
My hands were tied. So you waited for three years. I waited for three years.
I looked into his eyes and saw it. A raw, guarded vulnerability he showed no one else.
This powerful, untouchable man who controlled a criminal empire had been waiting for me. I closed the space between us, rose on my toes, and pressed my lips to his.
Dante froze for a second, a sharp intake of breath. Then his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me tight against his hard body as he kissed me back.
“The kiss was searing and deep, filled with three years of unspoken want, a claim, and a promise all at once.
I thought my chance was gone forever,” he whispered against my forehead, his voice rough with emotion.
“You have it now.” That was our first night together in his penthouse apartment overlooking the city.
A week later, things were moving fast. The symphony tonight? Dante asked as we worked.
They’re playing Mozart. Sounds perfect, I said, organizing papers on my desk. I’ve always loved his reququums.
I know, he said without looking up. It was in your university admissions file. I stopped.
You even know that. He finally looked at me, a slow, possessive smirk on his lips.
I told you I was paying attention. That evening, I changed into a black floor length gown and Dante arrived in a perfectly tailored tuxedo to pick me up.
We had just stepped out of the apartment building heading for the waiting car. Sir Fina.
A woman’s voice screamed from the darkness. Bianca stumbled out of the shadows and fell to her knees on the sidewalk, grabbing my dress.
She was a wreck. Her once perfect blonde hair was a matted mess. Her eyes were red and swollen, and tear tracks stained her face.
The once proud princess of the Rosso family looked like a ghost. “Please,” she sobbed, her voice cracking.
“You have to help me. Let go of me.” I tried to pull away, disgusted.
He stole 5 million from my father,” she choked out, her grip tightening on my dress.
“But it wasn’t our money. It was a payment to the cartel. If we don’t get it back, they’ll wipe us out.
My father, my brothers, all of us, and their war will drag the Morettes down with us.
I looked down at Biana kneeling on the pavement, a pathetic, broken thing. And I already knew this was Julian’s final desperate play.
He was using Biana, using the spectre of a war with the cartel to force Dante’s hand.
He thought he could manipulate us into cleaning up his mess. And then in the ensuing chaos, he would find a way back in “Fine,” I said, my voice cold.
“I’ll help you find him.” Bianca looked up, a flicker of wild hope in her eyes.
“Really?” “Yes, but on one condition. Anything. When this is over, Julian is yours. I don’t care what you do with him, but I never want to see his face again.”
Done. Bianca nodded without a second of hesitation. Dante stood beside me, a faint knowing smirk playing on his lips.
He knew exactly what I was planning. 2 hours later, we got our tip. An anonymous call.
Someone had spotted Julian at the abandoned docks on the Chicago River. “How convenient,” Dante said with a sneer as we drove.
“It’s almost like he wants to be found.” Of course he does,” I said, checking the small, thin blade hidden up my sleeve.
“How else is he going to put on a show under the cover of darkness, we arrived at the abandoned warehouse district, rusting cranes clawed at the bruised night sky like skeletal fingers.
There, Bianca pointed to the largest warehouse. There’s a light on.” We moved toward it in silence.
Sure enough, we could hear Julian’s voice from inside, dripping with arrogance as he spoke into a phone.
Everything is going according to plan. That pathetic [ __ ] Bianca already went crying to Saphina.
Dante and his men will be here any minute to play the hero. And then a voice on the other end asked, “And then the cartel will think the Morettes stole their money.
The two families will destroy each other, and I’ll pick up the pieces.” Julian let out a loud grating laugh.
Saraphina thinks she’s so smart, but I’m still the one pulling her strings. I gave Dante a sharp nod.
It was time. I pushed open the groaning warehouse door and walked in alone. Julian.
He spun around. Surprise flashed across his face, quickly replaced by a smug, self-satisfied grin.
My dear ex-wife, you came. He opened his arms as if to welcome an old friend.
Did you miss me? The only thing I miss, I said, my voice dripping with disdain, is the opportunity to have killed you myself.
Gee, Julian strolled toward me. Darling, you have it all wrong. I’m not going to die.
I’m going to rise from the ashes. With what? The 5 million you stole. The 5 million is just the ticket to the main event, he said, a wild, feverish look in his eyes.
Once the Morettes and the cartel tear each other apart, all of Chicago will be mine for the taking.
And you think Dante is falling for this little trap? He already has, Julian said, gesturing smuggly toward the door.
He’s outside right now, assembling his men, getting ready to save you. Is he? Just then, another one of the large bay doors slid open with a deafening screech.
Dante stepped out of the darkness with four of his men, his face a mask of cold fury.
At the same time, a third door was thrown open. Bianca stumbled in, clutching a silver pistol in her shaking hands.
“You’re all here,” she said, her voice on the edge of a scream. “Good.” The color vanished from Julian’s face.
“This wasn’t part of the plan,” he stammered. His eyes fixed on the gun in Bianca’s hand.
“The plan?” Biana sneered, her sanity fraying. “Your plan was to let the cartel slaughter my family so you could get back together with this bitch.”
“No, Bianca, listen to me. Listen.” Bianca raised the gun, aiming it straight at Julian’s chest.
“3 years I betrayed my own blood for you. I gave up everything, and you were going to have me killed.”
Seeing his options evaporate, Julian lunged for me, trying to take me hostage. But I was ready.
The moment his arm wrapped around my neck, the blade from my sleeve slid into his forearm.
Ah! Julian cried out, releasing me as blood gushed from the deep gash. “Bitch,” he snarled, clutching his arm.
“You! Bang!” The first shot was deafening. “Bang!” Julian screamed as a bullet tore through his thigh.
Bang! He collapsed in a heap as the third shot shattered his other kneecap. “You ruined my life.”
Bianca shrieked, sobbing hysterically. “So we can all go to hell together.” At a sharp nod from Dante, his men moved in swiftly and silently, disarming the hysterical Biana.
“Enough,” Dante said, his voice cutting through the chaos. He walked over to where Julian lay bleeding and whimpering on the concrete floor.
The game is over. One year later, Terramina, Sicily, the Mediterranean sun bathed the ancient stone church in golden light, and a warm breeze carried the scent of salt and lavender from the sea.
I walked down the rose petal aisle in an ivory vera wang gown, holding a bouquet of irises.
Dante was waiting for me at the altar, devastatingly handsome in a perfectly cut tuxedo, his eyes only on me.
At the altar, Dante ignored the priest for a moment, his eyes locked on mine.
“Do you take me?” He murmured, his voice low and for my ears only. “As your husband, your partner your king.”
“I do.” Father Gabriel smiled as he pronounced as husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.
The guests, the most powerful and feared figures in the Italian American underworld, rose to their feet, their applause thundering through the church.
At the reception later that evening, my eyes drifted to a quiet, shadowed corner of the terrace.
A man sat in a wheelchair, his legs withered and useless beneath a thin blanket, his face gaunt and haunted.
Julian standing behind him was a woman with a dark, resentful expression, her eyes full of a permanent, simmering hate.
Biana, her own family had brokered the arrangement, a penance for their dealings with Julian.
Now she was his permanent caretaker. Two people who despised each other, bound together for life in a prison of their own making.
That was the price of betrayal. What are you looking at? Dante’s voice broke my thoughts.
He took my chin in his hand, his grip firm but gentle, turning my face back to his.
Nothing. He lowered his head, his lips brushing my ear. You’re mine now, Sephina, he murmured.
I smiled, a genuine warm smile, and wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down to me.
And you belong to me always. 3 months later, back in Chicago, the city was ours.
The Moretti name under Dante’s rule and my guidance had never been more powerful. We were in his office, the same one where our partnership had been forged.
Night had fallen, and the city below was a glittering tapestry of light and shadow.
Dante stood by the bar, pouring his customary two fingers of whiskey. He turned, holding one out to me.
I remained by the window, my arms crossed over my stomach. “Not tonight,” he paused, the glass halfway to me.
“Why not?” He asked, his voice low. He stopped in front of me, his dark eyes searching mine for an answer I hadn’t yet spoken.
I let a small calculated smile touch my lips. Our partnership, I said softly, is about to yield its most valuable creation.
Silence. For a heartbeat, the unshakable Dante Moretti was perfectly still. The air crackled with a new potent energy.
He didn’t need to ask. His gaze dropped from my eyes to my belly. Slowly, as if handling the most priceless and fragile piece of art, he raised his hand and laid it flat against my abdomen.
His touch was warm, firm, a silent claim. “An air,” he breathed. He pulled me flush against his hard body, wrapping his other arm around my waist.
“Everything that light touches,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against my ear. One day it will belong to him or her.
