Never a Second Choice

The public exposure didn't chasten Bianca. On the contrary, it seemed to fuel her ambition. She sent me a friend request on social media.

I clicked on her profile picture—a lazy Persian cat lounging in some luxurious apartment. It was cute. Lorenzo hated animals; he said they were a sign of weakness.

I once suggested we get a Persian cat to keep me company, but he flatly refused, claiming he was "allergic" to cat fur. But now, with Bianca? It seemed all his so-called principles were negotiable when it came to someone new.

I accepted the friend request. Almost immediately, she sent a private message:

[Mrs. Gallo, I never wanted to ruin your marriage. I just want what’s best for this baby. It’s an innocent life, a blessing from God.]

Wow. She couldn't wait to declare her pregnancy, even invoking God as if she were performing a sacred duty. I left her on read. A few minutes later, another message came:

[Mrs. Gallo, please believe me! I truly love Lorenzo!]

By then, I had already screenshotted everything. Evidence.

Finally, I replied:

[What are you talking about? You're pregnant? With Lorenzo's child?]

The typing bubble popped up and flickered a few times, as if she were composing and deleting. Then:

[I'm sorry, I thought you knew. Lorenzo said he would be acknowledging the child soon.]

I retorted: [Don't play these pathetic games with me. Having the baby is your business. Whether the child is acknowledged is a matter for the family to decide. It has nothing to do with me.]

She didn't reply, probably assuming I would swallow my pride for Lorenzo's sake.

I scheduled an abortion. Then I called Eithne and told her to start preparing the divorce papers.

Lorenzo and I had always been the model couple of the Chicago underworld—the perfect union between the Irish and Italian outfits. No clingy mistresses, no gold-digging dancers. I had truly thought our alliance could become real love, not just a power play. I never imagined he would betray me so cruelly, a betrayal that had seeded a new life.

Eithne Bianchi, my best friend, my father's goddaughter, and the Consigliere of the O'Connell family, almost dropped her wine glass when she heard the news.

"Aoife, are you insane, or have you lost your mind?"

"He has someone else," I said flatly. "She's four months pregnant. It's a boy."

Eithne was furious, her hand immediately dropping to the holster at her waist. "Where's my gun? That bastard has some nerve, humiliating an O'Connell Principessa. I'll kill him myself."