Thirty Thousand a Month for His Mistress, One War From MeChapter 1
When I was nine months pregnant, I received an email with an electronic bank statement. My husband, Dante Moretti, had been transferring $30,000 to the same woman every month without fail. The first payment was dated back two years, right around the time we lost our first child.
Thirty thousand a month. Not from his own pocket. From the Family's tributary income, the money that flowed upward through the Moretti operations like blood through a vein. Money that was counted, tracked, and owed. Money that men had bled for.
Then, as if on cue, my phone chimed with a message notification from her.
It was a contact request, along with a note that read:
'The happy woman who gets $30,000 in pocket money every month.'
I sat in the living room of the Moretti estate, the house that had never quite felt like mine despite seven years of sleeping in its master bedroom. Outside, the wrought-iron gate was manned by two of Dante's soldiers who reported every car that entered and exited the property. The chandelier above me cost more than my mother's entire house. The leather of the couch was Italian, hand-stitched, chosen by Dante's mother before she died.
I felt an eerie calm wash over me, almost unnatural. As I stroked my belly, I clicked 'accept.'
……
Immediately, a message appeared:
'Did you get the bank statement?'
Ignoring it, I went straight to her profile. The earliest post was from two years ago, on April 21. In the photo, she leaned gently on a man's shoulder, her hand resting on him, showcasing a massive diamond ring. Not costume jewelry. The real thing. The kind of stone that only Family money could buy.
The caption read:
'Thank you for the birthday gift, love!'
Although only the man's back was visible, I recognized him instantly.
It was Dante. My husband. He was wearing the shirt I had bought him during one of his trips to Chicago, the one with the hand-stitched monogram on the collar that I'd had custom-made because he said he liked things that no one else could have.
Two years ago, April 21, was the day I lost our first child. While I lay in the cold, sterile operating room, undergoing a D&C procedure, my "on-a-trip-to-Chicago" husband was celebrating another woman's birthday.
The irony was almost suffocating.