Dante didn't come home that night.
Instead, his name lit up my phone screen at quarter past eleven. A single text:
'Hey Olivia, I'm working late tonight and crashing at the club. It's getting cold and rainy, so don't forget to close the window before bed. Love you always, your husband.'
I read the message without feeling anything.
The phone sat in my palm, its glow the only light in the bedroom. Rain streaked the tall windows of the Moretti brownstone, and somewhere beyond the property wall, a car engine idled. One of the soldiers on the night rotation. Always watching. Always there. A house full of surveillance and not a single person who saw what was actually happening inside it.
In the past, I would have worried. I would have replied. I would have stayed awake with the lamp on and the covers pulled back on his side, waiting for the sound of his key in the lock, telling myself that a man who remembered to remind you about the window still loved you. I would have typed back something soft. Something trusting. Something stupid.
Now, I didn't even bother to respond.
I used to think I was the happiest woman in the world because I had the best husband. The kind of man other wives in the Family envied. Attentive. Present. The kind who brought flowers on Sundays and kissed your forehead before leaving for business he never explained. But reality hit me hard. It had all been a ridiculous facade. People's hearts are hidden behind their ribs, and their lies are scribbled on paper. Or in text messages sent from a safehouse in Maplewood where another woman was sleeping in sheets he paid for with money that belonged to the Family.
I set the phone facedown on the nightstand and closed the window myself.
The rain hit the glass from the outside. The silence pressed from within.
A few days later, I received the divorce papers my fixer had drafted.
They arrived in a plain manila envelope, hand-delivered by a man I'd never seen before who rang the bell, handed it to me without a word, and disappeared into a waiting sedan. No return address. No firm name on the cover letter. The fixer understood what he was dealing with. You don't send certified mail to a Moretti address. You don't leave a paper trail that the Family's consigliere might intercept before the wife ever sees it.
I sat at the kitchen table and read every page. The legalese was dense, but the architecture was clean. Grounds for severance. Division of assets limited to what I could prove was legitimately earned, which wasn't much, because in this family, legitimacy was a performance. No claim on Moretti holdings. No claim on territory. No alimony. I wasn't negotiating for money. I was negotiating for the right to leave alive and whole, with my name and my child and nothing else.
I printed them out. Signed my name. Olivia Ferraro. Not Moretti. Ferraro. The pen didn't shake.
Then I started packing.
Not everything. I didn't want everything. I wanted my clothes, my mother's rosary, the ultrasound photos from my first trimester that Dante had never asked to see, and the leather journal I'd kept hidden in the lining of my suitcase since the day I started building the dossier. Everything else in this house belonged to the Family. The furniture, the art, the security system, the name on the mailbox. Let them have it.
