I packed one suitcase and sat in the dark until evening.

I called called Enzo again and again, because some part of me still wanted the truth from his mouth. I wanted to know how a man could kiss his wife goodnight and then walk into another woman’s bed.

All I got back was one cold line.

It was close to midnight when I heard the lock turn.

Enzo stepped inside, saw my red eyes, and went still for half a second. Then he crossed the room fast, pulled me into his arms, and touched my hands with a frown. “You’re freezing. How many times have I told you not to wait up for me?”

He wrapped me in the blanket and climbed in behind me, trying to warm me with his body.

Years ago, before he took over the Moretti family, someone inside the syndicate tried to bury him. Men came after us night after night. There were engines outside the house at all hours, footsteps in alleys, gunshots too close to the walls. I almost never slept. Enzo held me through every nightmare and swore no one would ever touch me while he was alive.

We live in a guarded townhouse now. He runs half the city. No one hunts us anymore.

So why did my heart feel colder than it had back then?

I opened my mouth to ask him when he had started lying to me.

Then I caught the scent on his shirt.

Warm milk. Baby powder.

My stomach turned so hard I shoved him off me and ran for the bathroom.

By the time Enzo reached me, I was bent over the sink, shaking. He rubbed my back and called our family doctor, “My wife is sick. Be here in five minutes.”

I pressed my palm to my lower stomach and prayed for one thing only.

Please do not let there be a child.

The doctor arrived within minutes, and checked me over, then held out a pregnancy test. “Have you had nausea? Trouble eating? It may be early.”

Enzo’s whole face changed. He took my hand and brought me into the bathroom himself. “Gianna,” he said, already smiling, already breathless, “are we finally having a baby?”

My fingers would not stop trembling.

Three minutes later, the second line appeared. Enzo stared at them, then at me. His eyes filled first.

“We’re having a baby,” he whispered.

He sent the doctor out for vitamins, supplements, anything I might need. He sat at the edge of the bed reading pregnancy care guides like they were sacred texts.

I watched him and could not understand why this child had come now, of all times.

Years ago, I got caught in crossfire during a war between two crews fighting over Moretti territory. I threw myself over Enzo before the second round hit. I woke up in a hospital bed with stitches in my side and blood all over the sheets.

That was how we lost our first baby.

Afterward, the doctors told me getting pregnant again might not happen easily. I spent five years on medications, injections, appointments, and hope that kept ending in silence.

Nothing happened.

Then I caught my husband with the woman he had never truly left, and suddenly there was a child.

I looked at Enzo and held on to the last shred of hope I had left. If he told me the truth now, maybe I could still force myself to believe there was something worth saving.

“Enzo, is there something you need to tell me?”

His phone rang before he could answer.

He glanced at the screen, and that single look told me more than any confession could have.

He turned back to me, bent down, and kissed my forehead. “Something came up. I need to handle it.”

I caught his hand before he could pull away. “Give me three minutes.”

The phone kept ringing.

He gave me that familiar helpless smile, the one that used to work on me every time. “We’ll talk when I get back. Tomorrow is yours. All day.”

Half an hour after he left, a message came from an unknown number.

The photo showed the man who had just told me he was going to work with his mouth on Rosa’s, their child smiling in her arms.

Some questions answer themselves.

At least Enzo had always been generous. The accounts in my name held more money than I could spend in one lifetime. I could leave, raise this baby alone, and never ask him for a cent.

I rested my hand over my stomach and cried quietly. “It’s you and me now,” I whispered.

There were no seats left on the last flight out that night. I bought one for Los Angeles the next evening and spent the hours in between trying not to look at my phone.

All night, a new photo arrived every ten minutes.

Enzo had bought Rosa a house in the same gated neighborhood where I lived. In one photo, he was standing behind her with his hand over hers while she painted a wooden plaque for the nursery.

Happy family of three.

The words blurred in front of me.

Pain tightened low in my belly. My hand went slack, and the phone slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor hard enough to crack the screen. When it lit up again, the wallpaper showed a photo of Enzo kissing me on the night we first fell in love.

I smashed the phone against the floor.

Then I tore every framed picture off the wall.

There were more than a thousand of them in this house. In every single one, Enzo had looked at the camera and said, “I love you.”

Lies should have sounded uglier than that.

By sunrise, I had cut up every photo of us, thrown out the pottery mugs we made together, taken off my wedding ring, and sold every piece of jewelry he had ever bought me.

By the time I was done, the room looked stripped clean, like no marriage had ever lived inside it.

That was when Enzo came home.

His hands were full of shopping bags. He stepped inside, saw the empty wall over the fireplace, and stopped. “Gianna, where’s our wedding portrait?”

I looked him in the eye and said, “The frame cracked. I sent it out to be fixed.”

For the rest of the day, he played the role perfectly. He turned off his phone and He cooked for me. He searched pregnancy recipes and made soup in our kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, acting like a man who had nowhere else to be.

Just after six, my car service alert flashed across my phone. It was time to leave.

Then the doorbell rang.

Enzo glanced toward the foyer and smiled. “That should be the flowers.” He headed for the door with the spatula still in his hand, but the second he opened it, all the color drained from his face. The spatula slipped from his fingers and hit the tile with a sharp crack.

He did not even bother taking off his apron before snatching up his keys and heading back out.

“Enzo.”

He was already moving.

“What happened?”

He gave me nothing but a clipped, “Stay inside,” before the door slammed behind him.

I did not need an answer. The panic on his face told me it was Rosa.

And once again, he ran to her without looking back.

I took my suitcase and walked out to the street to hail a car before the house swallowed me whole.

Then I heard the low growl of an engine. A black, unmarked car rolled to a stop right in front of me.

I turned and bolted on instinct, but I barely got moving before a hand sealed over my mouth and nose. Darkness rushed in so fast my knees gave out beneath me.

When I came to, I was crammed inside a burlap sack. Nearby, a woman was crying in that soft, sugary voice I had learned to hate.

“Enzo, my incision hurts so bad. It’s infected. What if it leaves a scar?”

Then I heard his voice.

Cold. Flat. Nothing like the man who had held me the night before.

“Is this the butcher?”

Every muscle in my body locked.

I forced air into my lungs and dragged one word out through the cloth.

“Enzo, it's me!”