The Iris Lie

The next morning, I sat in the study and pulled up the mansion's security feed.

Three 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 AM.

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 fuck 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'd tossed it aside, using the canvas as a goddamn drop cloth.

"You son of a bitch," I seethed.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"Seraphina." The voice was low and gravelly.

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.

High-resolution photos filled the screen.

The Caribbean.

A luxury yacht.

Julian and Bianca kissing on the deck, the blue sea sparkling behind them.

The time stamp 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 Cayman Islands.

"Perfect," I whispered.

At 3:00 PM, 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, Seraphina! 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.

"Rosso'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 Bianca," 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."

Five 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 fifties with a bulldog face.

Her father, I presumed.

"Seraphina," 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 mourning crest—and slid it across the table. "I came to invite you to my husband's memorial mass."

The color drained from Bianca'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, snarled, 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, three o'clock. 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.