The Mafia Boss Broke His Wife’s Heart for Another Woman—Then Came Home to an Empty House

The bedroom was silent except for the rain hitting the glass.

I didn’t cry. Crying was for women who didn't know what they were walking away from. I knew exactly what I was leaving.

Seven years of marriage. A penthouse in Manhattan. A man who could stop the world with a single word, but couldn't find three words to ask his wife to stay.

I placed two sweaters and a pair of jeans into the leather suitcase on the bed.

I didn't pack the diamonds. I didn't take the black silk gown.

I only wanted what was mine before I became Elena Moretti.

I opened the walk-in closet to grab my passport from the small wall safe. I knew the code. Dante’s birthday.

I punched the numbers. The heavy steel door clicked open.

My passport was there.

But sitting on top of it was something that didn't belong to me.

A heavy, silver locket.

It was tarnished, old, and completely out of place in a safe filled with pristine hundred-dollar bills and legal documents.

I picked it up. My fingers trembled as I found the small clasp.

I opened it.

Inside was a photograph of a little boy. He was perhaps six years old. He had Dante’s dark hair, Dante’s sharp jawline, and the exact same piercing gray eyes.

My breath caught in my throat.

Seven years.

I had begged Dante for a child. He had always said the world he ruled was too dangerous. He had said he couldn't bear to put a target on a child's back.

But he already had one.

“Put that down.”

The voice came from the bedroom doorway.

I spun around.

Dante stood there. His tuxedo jacket was gone. His tie was undone. He looked at the open suitcase on the bed, and then his eyes locked onto the silver locket in my hand.

“You’re home early,” I whispered.

“You left the gala,” he said. His voice was dangerously calm, but a muscle feathered along his jaw.

“You left me first.” I stepped out of the closet. “Who is he, Dante?”

Dante didn't move. “That is none of your business.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

I looked at the picture. “Does he belong to Bianca?”

“Elena. Put the locket back in the safe. Close your suitcase. We are not doing this tonight.”

“We are doing this right now!” I shouted, throwing the locket onto the mattress next to my packed bags. “You humiliated me tonight. You ran to another woman, and now I find a picture of a child who looks exactly like you hidden in my closet!”

Dante crossed the room in three strides.

He didn't grab the locket. He grabbed my wrist. Not to hurt me, but to stop me from backing away.

“He is my son,” Dante said, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper.

The room started to spin.

“And Bianca?” I choked out.

“Bianca is not my lover,” Dante said, his eyes burning into mine. “She is his mother.”

He let go of my wrist and picked up the locket.

“And tonight, the men who want to take my empire found out where she was hiding him.”

He looked at me, the terrifying mafia boss suddenly looking entirely vulnerable.

“I didn't leave the gala to sleep with her, Elena. I left because my men are bringing him here. To this house.”

Before I could process the shock, the bedroom door opened.

A little boy walked in, holding a worn, stuffed bear.