Chapter 2
790words
Alessandro hadn't returned.
I knew exactly where he was.
Not at the club. Not handling family business.
He was with her.
I slipped out of bed and padded to his study.
The door was locked.
But I had a key—one the butler had quietly duplicated for me.
The study was massive, dripping with luxury.
Portraits of past Moretti godfathers glared down from the walls.
His iPad sat on the mahogany desk.
His personal device, never out of his sight.
Except during his showers.
I picked it up.
The screen illuminated, demanding a password.
The password used to be my birthday.
He'd certainly changed it by now.
I tried several possibilities.
Our wedding anniversary. Wrong.
His mother's birthday. Wrong.
The family's founding date. Wrong.
One attempt remaining.
I hesitated, then typed a sequence of numbers.
Three months ago—the club's grand reopening date.
Also Jessica's first day.
The screen unlocked.
My hands trembled.
Just as I'd suspected.
I opened his messages.
A contact named simply "J" topped the list.
I tapped it.
Endless chat history.
Photos.
Videos.
Voice messages.
All of it.
I randomly opened one.
A video.
The girl wore the club's uniform.
Several buttons undone at the collar.
"Alex, I saw your wife today."
Her voice dripped with sweetness and smugness.
"God, she's so cold. Didn't even glance my way."
"Ignore her," Alessandro's voice rumbled off-camera.
"She's always like that. Cold as ice."
"Nothing like you."
"What do you like about me?" she giggled.
"Everything."
"Like what?"
"Like… what you're doing right now."
The camera began to shake.
Then came wet kissing sounds.
I closed the video, stomach churning.
I scrolled through more messages.
More.
More explicit.
I played a voice message.
"Daddy, I miss you so much."
"Can you come over tonight?"
"What about your ice queen?"
"Her?" Alessandro's voice dripped with contempt.
"Just sitting in that mansion playing the perfect wife."
"You're different. You make me feel… alive."
"Then I'll be waiting, Daddy❤"
The timestamp: last Thursday.
He'd claimed he was handling dock business that night.
Returned at three a.m.
I kept scrolling.
A photo appeared.
A girl making a heart gesture at the camera.
Behind her hung a painting.
I recognized it instantly.
My mother's heirloom.
A 19th-century masterpiece, the Petrova family's most treasured artwork.
Alessandro had told me it was destroyed in a shootout three years ago.
I'd mourned it for weeks.
He'd comforted me, promising to find a replacement.
Even took me to Europe to "heal."
It was never destroyed.
He'd given it to her.
My nails dug into my palms.
Fresh blood seeped through my bandage.
I felt nothing.
Only cold.
A bone-deep chill spreading through me.
An engine rumbled outside.
He was back.
I quickly replaced the iPad and slipped out.
I hurried back to our bedroom.
Locked the door.
Killed the lights.
Slid under the covers.
Footsteps approached.
The doorknob turned.
"Irina?"
His voice was gentle.
"Are you asleep?"
I remained silent.
He lingered outside, then his footsteps retreated to the bathroom.
Water began running.
For a long time.
He showered for ages.
As if trying to wash away his sins.
Half an hour later, the bathroom door opened.
The mattress dipped as he slid in beside me.
He reeked of shower gel.
Overpowering.
Yet it couldn't mask her cheap perfume.
He wrapped his arm around my waist.
"Sorry I'm so late, baby."
"Had a situation to handle."
Another lie.
His hands began to wander.
"Irina?"
"I'm sleeping," I murmured.
His hand froze.
"Tomorrow morning, then?"
"I have a hospital appointment tomorrow."
"What's wrong?" Alarm filled his voice.
"Just a checkup."
"Need me to come with you?"
"No need. Don't you have your mother's party to arrange?"
"Right."
He kissed my neck softly.
"Get some rest then. Night, baby."
"Night."
He fell asleep almost instantly.
His breathing even, completely vulnerable.
As if nothing had happened.
I stared into the darkness.
Eyes fixed on the ceiling.
This man—by day, the feared Godfather.
Cold. Ruthless. Chicago's boogeyman.
By night, a husband.
Gentle. Attentive. At least on the surface.
And when I wasn't watching…
Another woman's lover.
Three faces.
Which was real?
Or were they all masks?
I reached under my pillow for my phone.
Opened the email.
I typed my reply to Zurich:
"I accept. Please expedite arrangements. Also, contact Ethan Kowalski. He knows the protocol."
Send.
Ethan was my father's parting gift.
The Petrova family's most loyal soldier.
If I needed to disappear…
He would make it happen.
My phone vibrated.
Their response came instantly:
"Confirmed. Kowalski standing by. All preparations complete. Awaiting your signal."
I switched off my phone.
I gazed at the sleeping man beside me.
Goodbye, Alessandro.
This would be the last night I spent as your wife.
