Chapter 3 - The Lion's Den
Four hours later, a black armored SUV arrived at my temporary apartment to collect me.
I had been summoned to the main Moretti estate.
It was an imposing stone mansion located on the wealthiest edge of Chicago.
When I walked into the grand dining room, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense.
Don Carlo Moretti, Vincent’s ruthless father, sat at the head of the massive oak table.
His face was carved from stone, his dark eyes analyzing me like a threat.
Eleanor Moretti, Vincent’s mother, sat rigidly beside her husband.
She wore a string of pearls and a look of absolute disgust.
But the most insulting detail of the room was who sat next to them.
Sophia Reynolds was seated directly beside my husband.
She was wearing a modest, high-necked dress, playing the role of the traumatized victim perfectly.
I stopped in the doorway, almost admiring their sheer, unapologetic audacity.
Eleanor did not offer me a seat.
She folded her hands and demanded that I apologize to Sophia immediately.
I stood my ground, my posture straight.
I looked her in the eye and calmly asked what I should be apologizing for.
She sneered and accused me of publicly dragging a sweet girl’s reputation through the mud.
I let out a soft, mocking hum.
I called her perspective incredibly interesting.
Don Carlo slammed his heavy fist onto the table, rattling the crystal glasses.
He barked that this was a private, internal family dispute.
He accused me of committing treason by involving the syndicate's capos in our marital problems.
I kept my voice icy and steady.
I told him his son made it syndicate business the moment he compromised his judgment and loyalty for an affair.
Sophia lowered her head, squeezing out a few more practiced tears.
She whispered that nothing physical had happened in that room.
I ignored her completely and looked directly at Vincent.
He sat there, cowardly and silent, letting his parents fight his battles.
His silence was the final confirmation I needed.
Finally, Vincent found his voice.
He looked at me with cold, unfamiliar eyes.
He told me that I had humiliated her.
I stared back at him, letting the weight of his words sink in.
He was not angry that his marriage was ending.
He was not remorseful for breaking my heart.
He was only angry that I had embarrassed his mistress.
Don Carlo leaned forward, folding his hands over his silver-headed cane.
He ordered me to apologize, withdraw the divorce papers, and forget this nonsense.
He spoke as if I was a disobedient dog that needed correction.
I looked slowly around the table at the people I had served for three years.
I had attended every tedious charity gala.
I had smiled through their thinly veiled insults.
I had protected their bloody reputation.
I had constantly suppressed my own instincts whenever Sophia crossed the line.
And their reward for my loyalty was demanding I bow to the woman who stole my husband.
I reached down and picked up my leather handbag.
I told them calmly that I had clearly come to the wrong place.
I turned on my heel and began to walk out of the dining room.
Vincent jumped up from his chair.
He shouted my name, his voice echoing off the high ceiling.
I did not stop walking.
He ordered me to sit back down, declaring that they were not finished with me.
I paused under the arched doorway and looked back over my shoulder.
For the first time since I met him, my voice carried absolute, unwavering authority.
I told him that he was not finished.
But I was.
Vincent’s expression shifted, a flicker of genuine uncertainty crossing his face.
He suddenly realized I was not playing a game.
I was not waiting for him to chase me.
I was not begging him to choose me over Sophia.
I turned the brass handle of the heavy wooden door.
Don Carlo’s gravelly voice stopped me one last time.
He warned me that if I walked out of that house, the Moretti family would destroy my life during the divorce.
I looked back at the old mafia boss, feeling a dangerous smile form on my lips.
I told him that was perfectly fine.
I let my smile widen as I delivered the final blow.
I reminded him that the Morettis were not the only family in Chicago that people were terrified to cross.
Dead silence fell over the dining room.
Vincent narrowed his eyes, confused by my sudden arrogance.
He knew my maiden name was Bennett.
He knew my father ran an import-export business on the docks.
But in three years of marriage, his monumental ego had blinded him.
He had never once wondered why the most dangerous, older syndicate bosses in the city always went dead silent when my father’s name was mentioned.
I looked at Don Carlo.
The color had suddenly vanished from the old man's weathered face.
May you like
He knew exactly who the Bennetts were.
I walked out, leaving the door wide open behind me.
