My Husband's Mistress Hired Me

I was a top underground fixer and the wife of the most ruthless Mafia Capo in New York.

I managed his money, built his empire, and spent countless nights waiting in terror for him to survive bloody turf wars.

But one night, a desperate woman hired my encrypted network, begging for advice because her mafia protector was pulling away.

When I looked at the photos she sent, my blood ran cold.

The man she was crying over was my husband.

He lied to my face, claiming he was busy with dangerous Family business and ignoring my texts.

Yet, through the surveillance footage the woman sent me, I watched my ruthless husband stand in the pouring rain until dawn.

The man who treated me like a servant was groveling like a beggar, clutching imported medicine and food, pleading with a civilian to open her door.

"I will never leave you unprotected again," he promised her.

I had bled my own inheritance dry to cover his careless mistakes, only for him to give his devotion to an outsider.

He took my loyalty for granted, assuming I would always sit in our empty penthouse waiting for him.

I realized my intellect and ambition were never meant to be buried for a man who didn't respect me.

So, I logged into the Cayman Island banking portal and revoked his access to millions in offshore accounts.

I took off my gold Famiglia signet ring, packed my bags, and left his territory forever.

Chapter 1

Serena POV

I was in the middle of coaxing three million dollars of Syndicate blood money through a labyrinth of offshore accounts when an almost insulting five-hundred-dollar transfer registered on my encrypted server.

The query came from a desperate woman, begging for my help to retain her mafia protector. The routing code was unfamiliar, but my system flagged it as a referral from a low-level associate I had vetted years ago—someone who owed me a favor. I made a mental note to check that favor later. The problem was not the request itself. It was the photograph she had attached—specifically, the man's wrist, which was encircled by the exact custom platinum Rolex I had purchased for my husband.

I sat in the silence of our penthouse. The cool, electric glow from my monitors was the only light, and it drew a stark map across the dark mahogany of the desk.

I was the daughter of the Chicago Consigliere. I was the wife of Julian Moretti, the most formidable Caporegime in the New York Famiglia. I managed the underground intelligence network and the legitimate money-laundering fronts. I was the ghost in the machine.

And yet, a new client had somehow found a way past my standard vetting process. Her username was Elena.

She sent another message on the encrypted line.

"Please," Elena typed. "They say you are the best fixer in the city. I need your advice. The man protecting me is powerful. He is dangerous. I think he is pulling away."

The harsh blue light cast itself upon the red-brown wood. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, a faint numbness at their tips; each letter of the message seemed to burn a hole in my retina. I typed back. A demand for context.

Elena sent a barrage of chat screenshots. They formed a documented history of the messages between her and her protector.

The man was using excuses I knew with a dreadful intimacy. He claimed he had Family business. He claimed he was stuck in sit-downs with the Boss. He told her he had to go dark for security reasons.

A tightness seized my chest. A cold sensation worked its way up the back of my neck.

Another image loaded on my screen. It was a photo of an imported Italian ulcer medication resting on a glass coffee table. Next to it was a pharmacy receipt. The timestamp was exactly twenty minutes ago. The pharmacy was located in the heart of Julian's territory.

I looked down at my own phone.

A few days ago, Julian had sent me a secure text. He gave an order: procure a fresh supply of that exact brand of medication for him. He claimed his stomach was acting up from the stress of a weapons shipment.

My chair made a harsh, scraping sound against the hardwood floor as I stood.

I walked over to the marble island in the kitchen where my designer handbag sat. I unzipped the side pocket. I pulled out the two boxes of medication I had just received this afternoon through my private courier to restock his supply.

I held them under the pendant lights. They matched the box in Elena's photo. The same foreign text. The same dosage.

I marched back to my monitors. I snapped a photo of my two boxes and sent it to Elena over the encrypted line.

"How many boxes did the Capo buy tonight?" I typed.

Elena replied instantly. "Just one. How did you know he is a Capo?"

She sent another photograph, this one to prove his status. It was a picture of his hand resting on the steering wheel of a car.

The air in my throat seemed to turn to dust.

There, on the webbing of his thumb, was the Famiglia initiation tattoo. The ink was distinct, a mark only a Made Man could bear. My eyes traced the familiar lines of the crest, and the Rolex from the first picture ceased to be a coincidence. It was Julian.

I opened my personal chat history with Julian on my phone. I set the device side-by-side with the screenshots Elena had sent me.

Julian's messages to her were long and filled with fervent devotion. He told her she was safe. He told her he would burn the city down before letting anyone touch her.

Julian's messages to me were sterile. They were commands. "Bring the cash." "Clear the ledger." "Get the medicine." "Don't wait up."

A sensation like a bucket of ice water being poured over my head began in my fingertips and sank deep into my chest.

For a single, burning moment, my eyes stung with the threat of tears. I pressed my palm against my mouth, stifling a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. Then I swallowed it down. I would not cry for a man who had already stopped seeing me. I placed my hands on the keyboard. I operated as the fixer.

"Do not forgive him too easily," I typed to Elena. "Men like him need to be tested. Ask him again about the medication. Ask him if he bought extra."

As if on cue, the heavy oak doors of the penthouse swung open.

Julian entered, and with him came the scent of rain, gunpowder, and expensive cologne, disturbing the still air of the foyer. He was a massive man, imposing and ruthless. His dark eyes scanned the room before they landed on me, heavy with their usual expectation.

I locked my computer screens and moved into the kitchen.

I picked up the two boxes of ulcer medication and handed them to him.

Julian took them from my hands. There was not a word of thanks. He popped a pill out of the foil and swallowed it dry.

"Where were you?" The words left my mouth. No tremor. No hesitation. Just the dry rustle of air.

Julian's fingers hooked into his silk tie, yanking the knot down. "The docks. Handling a smuggled weapons shipment. The Underboss kept me late. It was a mess."

He lied straight to my face. His expression did not change. He did not even look at me.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out.

It was a notification from the encrypted server. Elena had replied to Julian on his burner phone, just as I instructed.

"I didn't buy extra medicine," Elena's screenshot showed Julian's reply. "I bought only one box. That's all she needed." Why are you asking? Do you think I am having you tailed by my Associates? You are safe with me, Elena."

I looked at my husband. He was taking off his shoulder holster, and he tossed it onto the pristine counter I had just cleaned. He dismissed my efforts. He dismissed my presence. He was obsessed with making sure a civilian felt secure, while he treated his own wife like a servant.

Julian sat down at the dining table. I served him the traditional Italian soup I had spent four hours slow-cooking.

He picked up his spoon. Before he could take a bite, a burner phone, protruding from his inner jacket pocket, lit up.

He must have thought I could not see it from my angle, but the screen's bright glow threw a perfect reflection in the dark window. The fabric of his jacket was pulled back just enough to reveal the text.

The caller ID read "The Orphan." It was Elena. Her message preview flashed across the screen.

"Will you visit my safehouse tomorrow morning?"

Julian abruptly stood up. His chair scraped back as he pushed his bowl of untouched soup away. "I need to make a call," he muttered, turning his back on me and leaving the dining room without another word.

I stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the steam rising from his abandoned bowl. The soup was still hot. My love for him had just turned cold.