Thirty Thousand a Month for His Mistress, One War From Me

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.

I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wedding ring, turning it slowly against my skin without realizing I was doing it. The band was white gold, engraved on the inside with the Moretti family crest. A mark of belonging. A brand.

My hands trembled as I scrolled further through her posts. Since that day, she had been flaunting all kinds of luxury items, each one identical to things I owned, except for one.

A jasmine-scented perfume.

Every handbag, every pair of shoes, every silk scarf. Mirror images of what sat in my closet. As if someone had studied my life and built a duplicate of it in a safehouse across town. The thought made my stomach turn, and it wasn't the pregnancy.

Then I saw her most recent post, pinned at the top. It was an ultrasound image. She was pregnant.

I dropped my phone, my heart pounding, and frantically searched through the dirty laundry basket in the walk-in closet. The house was quiet. The soldiers outside wouldn't come in unless called. The housekeeper had left at six. I was alone with the silence and the evidence.

I found the shirt Dante had worn the night before. Lifting it to my nose, the unmistakable scent of jasmine hit me.

I never wear perfume.

When I didn't respond to the message, the person on the other end grew impatient. My phone buzzed again and again as photos and videos came flooding in. Clutching my belly, I sank onto the couch, struggling to breathe.

The baby shifted inside me, pressing against my ribs as if trying to get closer to the sound of my heartbeat. I put one hand flat against the place where the movement was strongest and forced myself to look.

I forced myself to look at the undeniable evidence of Dante's betrayal. The woman in the photos was young and beautiful, her ponytail bouncing with life. Cara Valente. I recognized the name from the fringes. The Valentes were nothing, a minor family with no territory, no real standing. The kind of people who survived by attaching themselves to bigger names.

There were pictures of her and Dante.

He was rowing on a lake, playing in the snow, and tucking a maple leaf into her hair. It was as though each season, spring, summer, fall, and winter, was captured in their little love story. A life built in parallel to mine. A second household funded by the Family's money, hidden behind the code of silence that was supposed to protect us all.

Taking a deep breath, I shakily opened one of the videos. In it, Dante stood by the ocean, the wind pulling at his open collar, and tenderly called her "My Carina."

She softly asked, "Do you love me?"

This was my husband of seven years, the father of the baby growing inside me, a Capo in the Moretti crime family, a man who gave orders that other men obeyed without question, replying with a warmth I hadn't seen in years.

"I'll always love you, Cara."

His voice was soft. Unguarded. The voice of a man who had nothing to prove and no one to perform for. I had not heard that voice directed at me since before the miscarriage. Maybe longer. Maybe ever.

I replayed the video over and over, tears streaming down my face. As dusk fell, the room around me grew dim. The estate's exterior lights clicked on automatically, casting long shadows through the windows. Somewhere beyond the gate, one of the soldiers coughed. The world kept turning. The Family kept running. And I sat in the dark with my husband's betrayal playing on a loop in my hands.