I Kept His Family's Secret for Eight Years, He Let His Mistress Kill Our Baby

Maybe she'd pulled the door too wide.

Lorenzo's brow creased as he looked at me, and he yanked my coat open in one motion.

He pointed at the hospital gown underneath, his voice cold.

"You take one little fall this afternoon and now you've got this thing back on? Adriana Falcone, you really do commit to the act, don't you?"

His eyes raked over me as he spoke, slow and contemptuous, the way a made man sizes up a debt he means to collect.

I didn't want the loss of the baby stirring up anything more.

So I snatched the coat off the floor, wrapped it around myself, and turned to go.

But the second I turned,

a pair of hands clamped around me from behind and held tight.

Lorenzo stepped closer, looking at me, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You've come all this way, so don't run off. Aren't you the considerate one? You'll stay right here tonight and take good care of me. Bianca and I take the bedroom. You get the sofa."

The thought of what was coming

set my stomach churning, and it wouldn't stop.

I fought with everything I had to break free of his grip,

but every time I struggled,

a piercing pain shot through my lower belly,

and in the end he dragged me into the room by brute force, the way the Family handled anyone who forgot their place.

Past midnight,

the sounds of a man and a woman came right on cue from the bedroom.

I covered my ears and turned on the television.

Heaven always loves picking one person and tormenting them without mercy.

The screen was playing footage from that day, Lorenzo and Bianca pressed close and sweet together, the camera flashes of the territory's gossip hounds catching every touch.

I went to lift my hand and shut it off,

and only then did I realize my hands were shaking too badly to hold anything.

The sounds drifting from the room layered over the sweetness on the screen,

and I couldn't hold it back any longer. I gripped the sofa and started to retch.

All night that sound circled me like a curse.

My nails had long since torn my palms raw,

but I think I could no longer feel the pain.

That was how I made it to morning, when Lorenzo came out of the bedroom with his arm around Bianca.

He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead,

then looked at me, his voice as cold as ever.

"Home. You like playing the Don's wife, don't you? Today I'll let you play it to your heart's content."

When he'd finished, he stepped over and stroked Bianca's cheek a few times,

then hauled me out of the hotel.

Of course I knew Lorenzo wasn't being kind.

And sure enough, the moment we cleared the hotel doors,

the reporters swarmed me again.

I hadn't been at the sit-down he'd staged for the cameras the day before.

These reporters had to be carrying a full belly of knives, all of them aimed at me.

Lorenzo had brought me here to be humiliated...

Sure enough, the instant the pack of them saw me,

they came at me like wolves starved through a whole winter spotting prey,

surging forward in a frenzy,

and in a heartbeat the lenses and microphones were jammed in my face.

"Signora Moretti, at the Moretti gathering yesterday, did you see the coverage of how affectionate the Don and Miss Russo were?"

"Signora Moretti, are you and the Don going through a marriage crisis?"

"Signora Moretti, Miss Russo explained that what she shares with the Don is only a brother-sister kind of bond. Do you believe that?"

"Signora Moretti, last night we photographed Miss Russo checking into this same hotel, and it looked like she went into the room with the Don. So why is it the two of you coming out together this morning?"

Every question started with Signora Moretti,

and every one of them turned that title into an insult.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught Lorenzo standing off to the side,

and the burn-the-boats hatred in his eyes sent a chill down my spine.

What kind of hatred was it,

that he'd sink himself into the mire just to drag me down with him?

A whole night without sleep, and my head pounded like it might split open.

I pulled together the last thread of strength, my thumb finding the thin gold band on my finger and closing around it, then shoved past the reporters in front of me, and stumbled away on unsteady feet.

When I reached the first intersection past the hotel,