My Mafia Husband Chose His Pregnant Mistress

I didn't press the call button.

I put the phone face down on the marble and sat there until Lily came looking for me.

"Mommy, why are you on the floor?"

"Mommy dropped an earring, baby."

"Did you find it?"

"Not yet."

The next week, I became the perfect wife again.

Eggs at seven. Lily dropped off at kindergarten by eight. When Dominic came home past midnight, I met him at the door with a glass of warm whiskey, two fingers, the way he liked it.

"You're spoiling me," he said on Thursday, loosening his tie.

"Somebody should."

He kissed my cheek and went upstairs whistling. He never noticed I didn't follow.

On Saturday, I set the household ledger beside his plate at dinner.

Dominic stared at it like it might bite him. "What's this?"

"The joint account. It's dropping." I flipped it open. "Lily's tuition is due next month. The roof on the east wing needs repairs. And the laundromat on Pacific Avenue hasn't covered its own payroll since March."

"Viv."

"I just think we should move some money around before—"

He waved his fork. "Stop worrying about money. The family has plenty. The celebration budget was settled months ago."

"The celebration." I kept my voice light and cut into my chicken. "Where is it again? The Bellmont estate?"

"Why?"

"Curious. Who's sitting where? You know how the Castellanos get if they're too far from the head table."

He paused. Just for a second. His knife stopped moving.

Then he pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. Mine buzzed against the table.

"There. The whole program," he said. "Don't send that to anyone. I mean it."

"Who would I send it to?"

He didn't answer. He was already reading something else.

I waited until he went to his study before I opened the file.

Page one was the schedule. Page two was the seating chart.

The head table sat at the center of the ballroom. Two chairs were marked in gold for the Don and his wife.

*Dominic Moretti.*

*Serena Blake.*

My eyes ran down the official guest list. Capos. Their wives. A city councilman. A judge. Even the florist got a plus-one.

My name wasn't there.

Something heavy pressed against my sternum, dull and slow, like a fist pushing in. I kept scrolling anyway. I took a screenshot of every page and saved each one to a hidden album.

That night, I heard the shower running upstairs. Dominic had left his private tablet in the study, but I walked past it.

I wanted the old desktop in the corner.

Years ago, back when he trusted nothing he couldn't touch, he had backed up every family file on that machine. I used to sit beside him and type up the records while he paced.

I found a folder called *Private Correspondence.* Inside was a locked directory with no name.

I typed his birthday.

*Incorrect password.*

I tried our anniversary, *0614.*

*Incorrect password.*

I tried Lily's birthday.

*Incorrect password.*

The shower was still running. My hands hovered over the keys.

*S-E-R-E-N-A.*

The folder opened.

Hundreds of photos filled the screen, dated back three years. Serena on his arm at a private card game I'd never heard about. Serena on a yacht, wrapped in his jacket, her mouth on his neck. Serena at a hotel window, wearing a diamond necklace and nothing else.

A few were older. One showed the two of them in a restaurant booth during the winter I was pregnant, on the night I'd sat in the dark and counted cars passing the gate.

I clicked the newest one.

Dominic was walking Serena out of a private women's clinic. His arm curled around her waist like it belonged there. He was smiling down at her, soft and patient.

I hadn't seen that face aimed at me in years.

I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted copper. Then I plugged in my encrypted drive and copied everything. Photos. Dates. Receipts.

The progress bar crawled.

The cancelled trip to Napa three summers ago. *Business, Viv.* The forty thousand in cash that vanished from the safe. *Payroll.* The sweet, powdery perfume on his collar that I had blamed on a crowded club.

And every time I asked about Serena, he gave me the same look. Tired. Annoyed. Like I was a child asking why the sky was blue.

The shower shut off.

I pulled the drive, closed the folder, and was in bed with my eyes shut before his footsteps reached the hall.

Four days later, I told the housekeeper I was going into the city to pick out Lily's birthday present.

Instead, I sat across from Margot Ellis in a dim corner booth of a coffee shop on Ventnor Avenue. Margot had handled the family's private matters for twelve years. She wore reading glasses on a chain and listened without blinking.

When I finished, she stirred her tea. She didn't say *leave him.*

"You know what kind of family this is," she said.

"I helped build it."

"Then you know a divorce here isn't just a divorce." She set down her spoon. "What's in your name, Vivienne?"

"The house in Margate. I think. And the account my mother left me."

"You think?"

I flushed. "Dom handled the paperwork."

"Of course he did." Margot slid a notepad across the table. "Write down everything you believe you own. I'll check what's real. And the photos you took, did you copy anything from his phone?"

"A drive. From the old computer."

"Don't touch it again. Don't show it to anyone. Some of what you have will hold up. Some of it could get you hurt." She leaned forward. "Who in that house is loyal to you? Not to him. To you."

I opened my mouth. Then I closed it.

Margot nodded slowly. "That's the real question. And Lily. If you walk, where does she sleep? Who drives her to school? Who stands at the gate?"

"I'm not here to win him back," I said. "I'm not trying to prove I'm better than her."

"Good." Her voice softened for the first time. "You don't need to prove you deserve love more than that woman. You only need to make sure no one can ever use your love for him to control you again."

I stared at her.

Then, of all things, I laughed. It was a small, cracked sound, and the man at the next table turned around.

"Sorry," I said. "It's just that nobody's said something that makes sense to me in a week."

"Buy the birthday present anyway," Margot said. "You'll need a receipt."

When I got home, the bedroom smelled like bourbon.

Dominic lay sprawled across the comforter, still in his shirt, one shoe on. His eyes were closed. His lips were moving.

"Serena," he mumbled. "Sweetheart."

I froze in the doorway.

He grinned into the pillow. "Big surprise. You'll see. Nobody's gonna see it coming."

The blanket was bunched at his feet. For ten years, I had pulled it over him on nights like this. I had taken off his shoes. I had set water on the nightstand.

My hand reached for the edge of it out of habit.

Then it stopped in midair, like it belonged to someone else.

I pulled it back and pressed it flat against my stomach.

My phone lit up in my pocket. A notification. I'd followed Serena's account months ago and forgotten.

She had posted a photo of the Bellmont ballroom. Crystal chandeliers. White roses spilling over the head table. Two gold chairs.

The caption read: *Tomorrow, everything changes. The most important night of my life. 🤍*

I stared at it until the screen dimmed. Behind me, Dominic laughed softly in his sleep.

I wasn't going to wait for a confession anymore.

If my husband planned to erase ten years of my life in front of every family in Atlantic City, I would be standing in that ballroom to watch him try.