Five years into my marriage to Dante Moretti, the Don of the Chicago Outfit, the entire underworld knew he loved me more than life itself.

He’d had a violin—for me—tattooed right next to his family crest, a symbol of loyalty that could never be erased.

Until I got the photo from his mistress.

A cocktail waitress, sprawled naked in his arms, her skin marred by the dark bruises of rough sex.

She had scrawled her name right next to the violin he’d gotten for me.

And my husband had let her.

"Dante says only being inside me makes him feel like a man anymore. You can’t even get him hard anymore, can you, sweet Alessia? Maybe it’s time to step aside."

I didn't reply. I just made a single call.

“I need a new identity. And a plane ticket out.”

The taunting messages from my husband’s mistress started two months ago.

Photos of them tangled in bed, explicit details of his obsession with her body… the brutal truth of their affair was laid bare.

I didn’t confront him. I quietly arranged for a new identity and gave myself a deadline: seven days.

In an abandoned warehouse on the west side of Chicago, a single, flickering bulb cast a weak yellow glow.

I pushed a thick stack of cash across the table to the man in the flat cap.

"I need a new identity," my voice echoed in the cavernous space. "The name is Ava."

The man picked up the bills, fanning them with a practiced thumb. The rustle of the money was loud in the silence. "Passport, driver's license, the whole nine yards?"

"The whole nine yards." I nodded, my fingers clenching the leather purse on my lap. "And a bank account with a credit history."

"That'll be double." He looked up, a gold tooth glinting in the dim light.

I didn't hesitate. I pushed out another stack.

The man stuffed the cash into his jacket, then leaned forward, his voice low. "One week. But I gotta warn you, lady—once you use this new ID, the past has to be dead and buried. The Moretti family has eyes and ears everywhere in this country. You leave one single trace, they'll find you."

I stood, my heels clicking sharply on the concrete floor. "I understand."

My resolve was steel.

Twenty minutes later, I was lying on a table in a private tattoo parlor.

The sharp zap of the laser removal machine was a counterpoint to the dull ache in my chest as the eagle crest of the Moretti family slowly vanished from my collarbone. The pain was excruciating, like a hot poker searing my skin over and over.

But I clenched my jaw and didn't make a sound.

I just felt the five years of memories, my love for Dante, being burned away, just like the ink.

It was eleven P.M. when I returned to our mansion in Lincoln Park. The eight-million-dollar Victorian villa, Dante’s wedding gift to me, now felt like nothing more than a gilded cage.

I turned on the TV. A rerun of the Chicago Tribune's "Man of the Year" interview was playing.

My husband, Dante Moretti, was on screen. His black hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. His deep brown eyes, filled with an innate aura of authority, stared into the camera.

The reporter asked him what loyalty meant to him. Dante slowly undid the top button of his shirt, revealing the family crest on his chest—a hawk with its wings spread, talons gripping a rose and a dagger.

"Loyalty is this," he said, his voice a low, magnetic rumble as he pointed to the ink over his heart. "And this."

The camera zoomed in, and I saw it clearly: the delicate violin tattooed just below the crest—the one he’d gotten for me five years ago.

"My wife, Alessia, is a gifted musician," Dante said, a smile playing on his lips as he raised the hand wearing his platinum wedding band. "She gave up her dream of becoming a world-class violinist for me. That sacrifice is etched over my heart. It can never be erased."

I reached up and touched the gauze on my collarbone, the skin still aching.

Never be erased?

The memory of the photo slammed into me.

Two months ago. A text from an unknown number.

My phone vibrated, and a picture popped up.

My world shattered.

In the photo, a blonde bartender named Jenna was sprawled naked in Dante’s arms.

Her body was a canvas of fresh hickeys and the raw marks of their passion. They had clearly just finished.

Her long, slender finger was pointed proudly at Dante’s chest—where, next to my violin, a new, crude design had been scrawled in marker.

Her name, "Jenna," in sloppy cursive.

It was just a marker, something that could be washed away, but the fact that Dante had let her do it was a betrayal sharper than any blade.

A dozen more photos followed. Them in our vacation home. At our favorite restaurant. Even on my birthday—while I thought he was handling "family business," he was pinning another woman against the wall of his study.

"Dante says only being inside me makes him feel like a man anymore. You can’t even get him hard anymore, can you, sweet Alessia? Maybe it’s time to step aside."

The sound of a key turning in the lock pulled me back to the present.

Dante was home.

His footsteps echoed on the marble floor, growing closer. I smelled it on him—a cheap perfume. Not the Tom Ford I’d bought him, but something sickeningly sweet and floral. The scent of another woman, mixed with cigarettes and vodka.

His white shirt was slightly rumpled, his tie loose. There was an unmistakable bite mark on his neck.

"Alessia? Still up?" He walked toward me, ready to embrace me like he always did.

A wave of revulsion washed over me. I held up a hand, stopping him.

Dante looked confused. Then his gaze fell to my collarbone, to the white gauze covering the spot where the Moretti crest used to be.

"Alessia," his voice dropped, turning low and dangerous. "What happened to your tattoo?"

"A small burn," I said, my voice ice.

Dante's hand froze mid-air. His brown eyes, the ones I used to get lost in, flickered with suspicion.

But I wasn’t the naive music student I was five years ago. I had learned how to hold a perfect smile at a Moretti family dinner, how to survive with grace amidst blood and betrayal.

"I got you a gift," I said, picking up a beautiful blue box from the sofa and sliding it toward him.

The box was light. Inside was our wedding photo, cut into a thousand tiny pieces, each no bigger than a fingernail.

Dante took the box, a look of what I once would have called genuine surprise on his face. "What’s the occasion? Did I forget something?" He didn't open it, instead placing it on the coffee table and reaching out to touch my face.

I took a step back, my smile perfectly in place. "You really don't remember, Dante? It's our fifth wedding anniversary."

His expression froze, as if he'd been slapped. I saw the flicker of panic in his eyes, the guilt of a man caught in a lie but trying to play innocent.

"God, Alessia, I..." He reached for me. "Things with the family have been so crazy lately, I completely..."

"It's fine." I subtly pulled away, refusing to inhale the scent of another woman on him. "I understand."

"No, it's not." He grabbed my hand, his grip tight. "We have to celebrate. Let's go to the stables. Right now. You love it there. We can ride and watch the sunrise, just like we used to."

Used to? The last time we went riding together was three years ago. Back then, he would kiss the shell of my ear and tell me I was his queen. Now he couldn't even remember our anniversary.

But I nodded. "Okay. That sounds nice."

To ensure my escape, I had to keep playing the part of the clueless wife.

At four in the morning, Dante tried to manufacture romance as he drove, playing our wedding song—"La Vie en Rose."

"I'm so sorry I forgot, baby," he said, glancing at me. "You know how much I love you."

I didn't answer.

My hand brushed against the side compartment and felt a piece of fabric. A cheap, black lace thong fell out.

It wasn’t mine.

I pretended not to notice and pushed it back into place.

I had no interest in his meaningless excuses.

The sky was just beginning to lighten when we reached the stables.

We rode for about half an hour, with Dante trying his best to recreate the affection of the past. He’d sneak pictures of me as I rode by, loudly praise my form, and point out the sunrise with some cheesy romantic line.

One of the stable hands played along. "Mr. Moretti, you spoil the Mrs. rotten. Enough to make a man jealous!"

I said nothing.

Then his phone rang. A special ringtone.

"Sorry, baby. Gotta take this. Urgent family business." He gave me a quick peck on the forehead and trotted his horse to the other end of the paddock.

I quietly slipped back to the car, where Dante kept his burner phone.

The screen was lit up with a synced chat between him and "Kitten."

Kitten: I miss you, daddy… Can we try that new position you were talking about tomorrow night? With the new toy?

Dante: Of course. Looks like I didn’t wear you out enough last time.

Kitten: Don’t you like it when I’m insatiable? I’ll even wear that black lace set you love. I promise to make you happy.

Dante: I’m looking forward to the show.

More messages flooded the screen, filthy and detailed, planning their next rendezvous.

They had a date for tonight. The presidential suite at the Westin. He’d already ordered champagne and red roses.

When Dante returned, he slipped back into his role as the devoted husband.

"Couldn't see you for a second there, I was starting to panic," he said, riding up beside me and taking my hand. "Thought you'd left me."

My stomach churned.

Bile rose in my throat.

"Alessia? You okay?" Dante looked at me with concern. "You're pale."

I couldn't take it anymore. The dirty texts, the thong reeking of another woman, his hypocritical concern—it all made me physically sick.

I threw open the car door and scrambled out, doubling over in the bushes as I vomited violently.

Everything in my stomach came up, as if I was trying to purge the last five years of my marriage.

"Alessia!" Dante shouted, jumping out of the car. "What's wrong?"

I knelt on the ground, heaving, tears mixing with the bile streaming from my mouth.

It wasn't just sadness. It was rage.

"Baby, you must have eaten something bad," Dante said, gently helping me back into the car and handing me a bottle of water. "We should go to the hospital."

I shook my head, affecting an air of weakness. "No, it's fine. I think I've just been stressed lately."

He made a thoughtful suggestion. "There’s a gala tomorrow night. It could be fun, a good way to relax. Would Mrs. Moretti do me the honor?"

A cold, sharp idea formed in my mind. I smiled. "Of course. Can we have it at the Westin? I love their food."

A flash of panic crossed Dante’s eyes, but he quickly masked it. "Of course, baby. Anything you want. I'll have my guys book it right away."

I knew what he was thinking.

If we both showed up at that hotel, the risk of his mistress being seen was too high.

But he couldn't refuse a "sick" wife's small request, could he?

Back at the mansion, Dante was unusually attentive. He made me chicken soup, insisted I stay in bed, and checked on me every hour. He was playing the part of the perfect husband.

But on his burner phone, I saw the message he sent to Jenna:

"Change of plans. Meet me in the private wine cellar downstairs tomorrow. 8:30 p.m. It's more secluded. More thrilling. Imagine it… making love among all those expensive bottles of red..."

Kitten: "Sounds amazing! I'll wear that red dress you love. And nothing underneath."

The sound of the shower turning off in the bathroom brought me back. I quickly put the phone away.

When Dante walked out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist, water tracing paths down his muscular chest, the sight that would have made my heart race five years ago now only filled me with disgust.

"Feeling any better?" He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to feel my forehead.

I nodded, then pretended to remember something. "Oh, I almost forgot." I pulled the blue box from the nightstand. "I got you this for our anniversary. I was so excited to give it to you."

He started to open it, but I stopped him.

I stroked his cheek. "I want you to wait a week to open it. Think of it as a little surprise, okay?"

He looked at me, confused. "Why a week?"

I gave him a mysterious smile. "Because by then, you'll understand what the gift truly means."

Dante shrugged, placing the box in his nightstand drawer. "Alright. If that's what my wife wants."

The next morning, Dante was up early, making me breakfast in the kitchen.

Fried eggs, bacon, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and my favorite, a perfect espresso.

A perfect breakfast from a perfect husband.

Just then, the doorbell rang. One of Dante's men, Marco, stood on the doorstep, holding a plain brown paper bag.

"Boss, the thing you asked for." Marco handed it over, his eyes darting around nervously.

But I saw it—a small velvet box peeking out. Probably something for his little tryst.

After Marco left, Dante returned to the table and continued eating as if nothing had happened.

I stirred my coffee, my voice casual. "Dante, can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

I looked up at him. "How important do you think loyalty is in a marriage?"

Dante’s fork paused in mid-air for a second before he continued cutting his egg. "It's everything. Loyalty is the foundation of our world."

"Is it?" I tilted my head, playing the part of the naive wife. "So you've never betrayed me?"

Dante immediately put down his fork and reached for the silver cross he wore around his neck. It was a gift from his father, a sacred object to the Moretti family.

"I swear on my father's grave," he said, looking me straight in the eye, his tone solemn and sincere. "I will only ever be loyal to you, Alessia. You are my wife, my queen, the only woman in my life."

His performance was flawless. If I didn't know the truth, I might have been moved to tears.

"So," I said, lifting my coffee cup, my eyes turning cold as steel, "what happens if you do betray me?"

Dante, completely oblivious, answered with a relaxed smile. "Then let me lose everything. Let me wander this earth like a ghost."

"Of course, my love," I whispered, the coffee bitter on my tongue. "I'll hold you to that."