The Mistress's Name On His Heart

Lana POV

The Cavallaro estate was more than just a home; it was a fortress, a gilded cage built of cold marble and silence.

I had been living within its walls for three months.

Jameson thought he had won. He mistook my silence for submission, assuming that because I hadn't run crying to my father, I had accepted my place as a decorative fixture. He thought I was weak.

He didn't know I was building a case.

I sat in the library, the heavy oak door bolted shut against the rest of the house. On the mahogany desk, the landline blinked red.

I lifted the receiver.

"Hello?"

Silence greeted me, followed by the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing. A woman's breathing.

"I know it's you, Caren," I said.

"Is he there?" Her voice was dripping with false sweetness.

"He's out," I lied smoothly. "Earning the money you so enjoy spending."

"He bought me a condo," she bragged. "Did you know? It has a view of the river."

"That's nice," I said, my finger pressing the record button on the small, discreet device I had rigged to the phone. "Does he visit often?"

"Every night," she purred. "He tells me he can't stand touching you. He says you're cold. Like a statue."

"Statues last forever," I countered, my voice devoid of emotion. "Whores are seasonal."

She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "He calls me his Lucky Charm. Did you know that?"

I looked over at the corner of the room. Leo, Jameson's African Grey parrot, shifted on his perch, bobbing his head.

"Lucky Charm," the bird squawked, a perfect, haunting mimicry. "Pretty Caren. Lucky Charm."

The bird had been hearing it for months. Before the wedding. Before the contract.

"I have to go," Caren said suddenly. "He's pulling into the driveway. He hates it when I'm on the phone with you. He says it stresses me out."

The line went dead.

I stopped the recording and transferred the file to the encrypted folder on my laptop.

Just then, I heard the front door open. Jameson's heavy footsteps echoed in the grand hall.

"Lana!" he called out. "I'm home."

He sounded cheerful. The dutiful husband.

I glanced down at the wastebasket beside the desk. Inside, wrapped carefully in a tissue, was a plastic stick bearing two pink lines.

I rested a hand on my stomach.

I was carrying the heir. The baby that would cement the alliance. The baby that would make Jameson the undisputed Don one day.

But Jameson was a traitor.

He walked into the library, bringing the scent of rain and another woman with him.

"Hey," he said, leaning down to kiss my cheek. I didn't flinch. "What are you doing?"

"Just reading," I said, closing the laptop.

"We have the family dinner tonight," he reminded me. "My parents. Your parents are flying in. It's a big night."

"Yes," I said. "It is."

He didn't notice the glacier behind my eyes. He was too arrogant to see the knife until it was already buried between his ribs.

"Wear the red dress," he commanded softly. "I like you in red."

"Okay," I agreed.

I would wear red.

The color of war.