His Sleep Talk Named His Goomah,So I Took Everything

Three in the morning, and my husband was talking in his sleep: "Be good for Daddy, baby. Tomorrow I'll buy you and Mommy a new house."

I was wide awake in an instant. We'd always used protection. What baby?

I shook him. "What did you just say?"

He rolled over, voice thick with sleep. "Bad dream. Client chasing a debt."

I said nothing. In the dark, with the bedroom curtains filtering a pale stripe of streetlight across the floor, I found his phone on the nightstand beside his holstered .32. I slid the screen open and pulled up his PayPal.

Three months ago, a transfer of five hundred thousand. The memo read: Down payment. Recipient: Elena Caruso.

I searched the name. Her Instagram loaded, and the top post was an ultrasound.

"Our little angel is three months along already. Daddy says when you're born, we'll be living in a big house."

Posted the day after my husband's transfer.

I screenshotted everything and sent it to my father: "Dad, the great son-in-law you picked isn't just cheating. He's got a bastard on the way. I'm going to make sure he leaves this marriage with nothing."

His reply came fast:

"That son of a bitch! Sit tight, girl. I'm putting Matteo Santoro on this tonight. Nobody betrays the Moretti family. I'll make him wish he'd never been born."

——

I could picture it: Don Moretti in his study at the compound, rosary beads going still between his fingers the moment he read my message. When those beads stopped, mercy ended. I'd seen it happen to men far more powerful than Damian Valente.

I forced down the bile and kept scrolling through Elena Caruso's Instagram.

One month ago: "Picked out our little love nest today~ The neighborhood is gorgeous! Thank you, hubby, for giving me and our baby boy such a warm home."

The photo: her hanging on Damian's arm outside a realtor's office, belly visible under a fitted dress, beaming.

Damian had his hand on her waist, looking at her with a softness I had never seen on his face. Not once. Not in four years of marriage. Not on the night he'd stood before my father and sworn his loyalty to the Moretti bloodline.

Two months ago: "Hubby says he loves me and the baby most in the whole world, and he'll give us the best life possible. Tonight's steak was amazing!"

A high-end restaurant. On the table, Kobe beef I'd never let myself order.

I remembered that day. I'd suggested we go to that exact restaurant to celebrate my taking over the Family's waterfront accounts. Damian had frowned and said it was too expensive. We'd ordered takeout instead.

Too expensive. For a Moretti.

Three months ago: "Two lines on the test! Baby, your timing is perfect. Mommy and Daddy are so ready for you!"

Her hand laced through Damian's, both resting on her belly.

Each photo landed harder than the last, until I couldn't breathe.

I cried without making a sound, tears soaking the pillow in the dark.

Damian slept soundly beside me, a faint smile still curving his lips. Back in that other life again, no doubt, playing happy family in his dreams.

I looked at that face, that mask, and felt every last trace of love turn to something cold and clean and final.

You really thought you could hide this from me, Damian?

I am Adriana Moretti. No one makes a fool of me.

I slipped out of bed, padded to the study at the end of the hall where the Family ledgers were locked in a floor safe, and turned on the computer.

As the sole heir to the Moretti Family network, I had more than enough ways to make him regret this.

First, I needed to find out exactly who Elena Caruso was.

One call to an agency the Family kept on retainer, and I had a full profile within the hour.

Elena Caruso, twenty-three. Fresh out of a no-name college. Working the front desk at Damian's operation.

Unremarkable family. Both parents factory workers from a neighborhood the Morettis didn't bother to collect from.

The classic small-time climber, angling to change her life by attaching herself to money and power.

What made my blood boil even more: her start date at Damian's operation was six months after our wedding. Six months after the ceremony at Saint Augustine's, where every capo in the city had kissed my cheek and called Damian a lucky man.

She'd gone after a married man from day one.

That shameless little bitch.

The next morning, Damian woke me up the way he always did, gentle and warm.

"Breakfast is ready, babe." He kissed my forehead. "I've got an important client today. Might be home late."

I watched his lower lip. He wet it, just slightly, before the word client left his mouth. A flicker so small most people would miss it. I never would again.

I managed a smile. "Sure. Work comes first."

Something flickered in his eyes, a brief surprise, probably because I hadn't pushed back at all.

"Oh, uh, babe. I'll probably be tied up the next few days too. Don't… you know, don't read anything into it."

I turned my wedding band once with my thumb beneath the sheets where he couldn't see. "Of course not," I said. "Be safe out there."