Chapter Two

I saw Larissa Moreau.

More precisely, I saw her face.

A massive screen in Times Square flashed cold, wet light through the rain. An ad for a luxury brand’s new-season berry lip stain—her endorsement—covered an entire building.

And the first time I’d ever seen her had also been in photos.

Seventeen shots in a burst. Manhattan night reflected in a suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows. She wore Caleb’s shirt—the Italian custom piece I’d bought him, my initials embroidered in gold thread on the cuffs—and straddled his lap. In the last shot, she made a heart to the camera, her lip movements clear enough to read:

“He said your taste is too old.”

Caleb had cheated.

That night, I did the most undignified thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I drove straight to the faction’s base and, at the dinner table of the old godfather Vito Falconel—current head of the family—I laid those photos down one by one.

“Your second-in-command,” I heard my own voice shaking, yet unnaturally clear, “is using his marriage as payment for sex.”

The old godfather set down his knife. The sound was light, but in the dead-silent dining room it cracked like a gunshot.

“Caleb,” he said.

Caleb stood. His face held no expression, but in his eyes was something I’d never seen before—not anger, but calculation. He was thinking how to handle this in front of an old man who prized marital fidelity.

“Elena hasn’t been sleeping well lately,” he replied quickly, as evenly as if reporting the weather. “She’s developed… some delusions.”

I froze.

Dismissive. Cool. Ignoring me. Casual.

And the old godfather only slowly dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

“Clean it up,” he said. “Don’t make the family a joke.”

Soon after, I was removed from the table. Caleb didn’t even need to look at me.

That was when I understood how ridiculous it was to think I could use “marriage” to force the mob to punish a cheating second-in-command.

Over the following week, the “family friends’” wives—women who’d once smiled warmly at me—began taking turns inviting me to tea. With perfectly painted lips, they delivered the same recycled advice.

“Men will be men—sometimes it’s just social fun.”

“You should understand Caleb. He’s under so much pressure.”

“That little starlet is just a phase. He’ll get bored and toss her.”

“The key is holding your position. What do you gain by making it big?”

I clenched my teeth, crumbled delicate scones into crumbs, and felt a fire burning in my chest.

I hated Caleb. I hated that he could hold another woman in the middle of the night—and still push me into the role of a pitiful, bitter wife who needed to be “understood” and “talked down.”

And I hated myself even more—because when I saw those photos, my first thought wasn’t *I’m leaving this bastard,* but *How could he do this to me?*

But what truly broke me was the entertainment exclusive a few days later. Two full pages, with the headline:

“Mafia Prince and Hollywood Sweetheart: Forbidden Love or True Love Conquers All?”

In paparazzi shots, Caleb and Larissa walked hand-in-hand into a boutique hotel. He supported her gently, looked at her with a smile. The timestamp showed they stayed inside for six hours.

Caleb’s PR team released a statement within four hours:

“Mr. Caleb Fickett and Ms. Larissa Moreau are currently in a serious relationship. They met through work, admire each other, and hope the public will offer understanding and respect.”

*A serious relationship.*

Those four words hit like four bullets—precise, piercing every last illusion I’d clung to.

That afternoon, I drank half a bottle of tequila, then kicked open the cigar room door at one of his private clubs.

He was discussing business with a few men. When he saw me storm in, Caleb lifted a hand. The others gathered their papers and left. Once the door closed, the room held only the two of us—and the sweet, cloying scent of burning cigars.

“Caleb…” My voice started to shake. “How can you… how can you do this to me?”

“Elena.” He sighed and stubbed out the cigar. “Can we not do this every time? You barge in like a stalker, screaming and making a scene, humiliating me in front of everyone—”

“Humiliating?” I grabbed the crystal ashtray off the table—heavy, with sharp edges. “You feel humiliated? What about me? Caleb, I’m your wife. Your wife under the law—your wife who swore vows before God. And now you’re telling me you and that bitch are in a ‘serious relationship’? Then what am I? Your nanny? Your housekeeper? Or the shield you use to fool old Fickett?”

“Watch your language.” His voice cooled.

“Watch my ass!” The ashtray left my hand.

He didn’t dodge. Or maybe he didn’t expect I’d actually throw it.

The thick crystal smashed into his temple. Blood surged instantly, ran along his brow bone and into his eye. He blinked—slowly—then lifted a hand and wiped, staring at the red on his palm.

Then he smiled.

“Yeah.” He said it as blood slid to the corner of his mouth and he licked it away. “I cheated. I fell in love with someone else. I think she’s younger than you, more interesting than you, smiles better than you—and she moans better than you in bed. Satisfied now?”

With each sentence, he stepped closer. I backed up until my spine hit the liquor cabinet, bottles clinking.

“Can’t take it?” He stopped in front of me. The smell of blood mixed with cologne rushed at my face. “Then divorce me. The money you’ll get now is a hell of a lot more than before.”

I stared at him—at the face I knew so well, now so unfamiliar it looked like a demon crawling up from hell.

Then I lifted my hand and slapped him with everything I had.

“Divorce?” My voice came out hoarse and shattered, yet unnaturally clear. “Don’t even dream of it. Caleb Fickett, I’m telling you—so long as I’m alive, you don’t get to dump me. You and that slut can carry the name of adulterers for the rest of your lives. I’ll be the noose around your necks, the corpse under your bed, the taste of blood you get every time you kiss.”

I spoke each word slowly, watching his eyes.

“I. Will. Never. Divorce.”