The Mistress's Name On His Heart

Lana POV

The morning sun assaulted the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Cavallaro penthouse. It offered no warmth; it felt only exposing, stripping away the shadows I had been hiding in.

Jameson jolted awake to the shrill sound of a ringtone.

It wasn't a standard trill. It was a specific, cheerful melody-one I recognized instantly because I had heard that exact chime on Caren's phone a thousand times.

He moved faster than a hungover man should, scrambling for the burner phone he thought I didn't know existed.

He answered it before his eyes were even fully open.

"Yeah?" His voice was rough, laced with a panic that had nothing to do with business.

I sat at the vanity, methodically brushing my hair, watching him through the reflection of the mirror. I had been awake for hours, staring at the evidence I'd already captured on my phone.

He softened visibly. His shoulders dropped, the tension bleeding out of him. He listened for a moment, then whispered, "I know. I know, baby. I'll fix it."

He hung up and turned to me. The shift was instantaneous. The tenderness evaporated, replaced by the cold, arrogant mask of the Philadelphia heir.

"Who was that?" I asked, my voice deadly steady.

"Business," he lied effortlessly, swinging his legs out of bed. "An issue with a shipment in Jersey. Don't worry your pretty head about it."

He stood and stretched, his body a map of beautiful, terrifying violence. Muscles carved for brutality, scars that whispered of turf wars...

And there, stark against his pectoral muscle, was that fresh, black C.

He walked toward the bathroom, ignoring the brand on his chest as if ignoring it would make it disappear. As if he hadn't carved his infidelity into his own skin.

"Jameson," I said.

He stopped, his hand gripping the doorframe. "What, Lana? I have a headache."

"You have ink on your chest."

He froze. The muscles in his back coiled tight.

Slowly, he turned around. He looked down at himself, feigning surprise, but I caught the flash of genuine fear in his eyes.

If my father-the Don of Chicago-saw that tattoo, Jameson would be a corpse before sunset. The alliance would dissolve in blood. Philadelphia would burn.

"It's nothing," he said, his voice tight. "A drunken mistake from the bachelor party. Some stripper's initial. It means nothing."

"A stripper named Caren?" I asked.

The color drained from his face.

He took a step toward me-a classic intimidation tactic. He was used to people cowering before him.

"You're crazy," he spat. "You're imagining things. Caren is your friend. She's a nobody."

"She's somebody to you," I countered. "Enough to risk a war."

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. "You say a word to your father, Lana, and you'll regret it. This is my city. You are my wife. You do as I say."

"Remove it," I commanded.

He blinked. "What?"

"Remove the tattoo. Today. Or I send the photo to Chicago."

He stared at me, searching for the submissive girl he thought he married. He didn't find her.

"Fine," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "I'll get it covered. But don't you ever threaten me again."

He stormed into the shower, slamming the door behind him.

My phone buzzed against the marble vanity. Another text from Caren.

Hope the honey water worked! Is he awake? I'm worried about him.

I looked at the bathroom door, listening to the water running.

I didn't reply. I was done playing sister.