Thirty Thousand a Month for His Mistress, One War From Me

Thirty thousand a month. Not his money. Tributary income. Money that flowed up from the businesses the Moretti family protected, money that was supposed to fund operations, grease palms, keep the machinery of the empire turning. And Dante had been skimming it to keep his comare in silk and supplements.

When Daniel came out of the shower, his phone rang. From my vantage point, through the crack in the bedroom door, I saw his face soften as he answered the call. He ran his thumb along the edge of his jaw, that slow, deliberate gesture he made when he was calculating something. Then he glanced toward the bedroom, and carefully stepped out onto the balcony, closing the glass door behind him.

Curiosity gnawing at me, I forced myself up and stood by the door, watching him through the glass. I couldn't make out the words, but his expression was tender, with a slight smile. The kind of smile he hadn't given me in months. Maybe longer. At some point, whoever was on the other end must have said something that made him frown in discomfort. His jaw tightened. But soon enough, he caved, agreeing with a subtle smile that softened the hard lines of his face.

The chill in my chest deepened. Slowly, I turned and dragged myself back to bed, feeling as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Even breathing felt like a burden. The house was enormous and silent around me. Somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock in the foyer ticked. Outside, one of the perimeter guards passed beneath the bedroom window, his footsteps crunching on gravel. The sounds of a world that kept moving while mine had stopped.

A few minutes later, I heard Dante tiptoe back inside. One of his hands rested on my belly while the other gently brushed the hair from my forehead.

His voice was soft as he whispered, "Baby, there's something urgent I need to handle. Family business. I have to go."

I turned my head and stared deeply into his eyes. My last shred of hope flickered weakly as I asked, "I don't feel well. Could you stay?"

For a brief moment, I thought that if he chose to stay with me instead of running to her, I could try to forgive him. That maybe the seven years meant something. That maybe the ring on my finger and the child in my belly outweighed whatever Cara Valente whispered to him on the phone.

But then I remembered: once the kite string snaps, it can never be fixed.

As expected, Dante gave me a troubled smile, trying to reassure me. "Sweetheart, this can't wait. There's a sit-down I need to be at. You know how it is."

"I'll call your mother. Rosa can come over and stay with you, okay?"

A wave of nausea washed over me, goosebumps prickling my skin. He invoked my mother's name so easily. As if she were a consolation prize. As if her presence could fill the space he kept hollowing out. Still, I managed to force out the words, "Drive safely."

I lay there in silence, watching him get dressed. He pulled on a dark jacket, checked his reflection once, ran his thumb along his jaw again. Then he left. The front door closed. The engine turned over. The crunch of tires on the driveway, and then nothing.

Slowly, I got up, holding my belly, and made my way downstairs. I called for a car. Not one of the Family's drivers. A taxi. An ordinary taxi, because what I was about to do required no witnesses who reported back to the Moretti household.

"Maplewood Estates," I told the driver.

He sped through the streets, past the shuttered storefronts and the restaurants the Family owned, past the social club on Mulberry where the old men played cards and pretended they didn't know what happened in the back room. Just as we arrived at the gated entrance of Maplewood, I saw Dante's car pull in ahead of us. My stomach clenched. I asked the driver to park behind a row of trees, where the streetlight didn't reach.

From the back seat, I watched as Cara fluttered into Dante's arms like a butterfly.

He caught her gently, placing a hand on her flat stomach. His face softened with a look of tender reproach, and he playfully tapped her nose. The gesture was so intimate, so practiced, that it told me everything about how many times they'd done this. How many nights he'd come here after telling me it was Family business. How many mornings he'd returned smelling of jasmine and called it work.

Cradling my belly with one hand, I took out my phone and switched to video mode. With trembling fingers, I watched through the screen as Dante lifted Cara into the passenger seat and carefully buckled her seatbelt. The way he moved around her. Protective. Attentive. Like she was something precious.

My eyes burned, but I blinked back the tears.

"Driver, follow that car," I said.

The car climbed onto the overpass, neon lights flashing by outside the window. The city spread below us, glittering and indifferent. In a daze, my nails dug into the window frame until they split, the sharp pain snapping me back to reality. I put my bleeding fingers into my mouth and bit down hard.

As the car wove through the city streets, I repeated to myself, over and over, "Olivia, endure it. The pain will pass."

I was a Ferraro before I was ever a Moretti wife. And Ferraros did not break. Not where anyone could see.

When we arrived at Riverside General Hospital, I scanned the payment code and settled the fare.

As I stepped out of the car, the usually quiet driver turned to me and said, with unexpected kindness, "Miss, take care of yourself. For the baby's sake, don't hurt yourself."