Chapter 1
At 3:17 P.M., my husband walked into the luxury hotel I managed, holding his mistress's hand—hours after kissing me goodbye and claiming he was flying to New York. Dante Moretti, Chicago's most feared mafia boss, had booked the Presidential Lake Suite for three nights, complete with champagne, rose petals, and one king-size bed. His mistress wore an $8,000 diamond bracelet he'd purchased with our household credit card. He wore the silver cuff links I'd given him for our seventh anniversary. Neither of them recognized me until I looked up from the reception desk and said, “Your reservation is confirmed, Mr. Moretti.” When my husband finally saw my face, he turned deathly pale. But instead of confronting him, I smiled and asked for his identification.
My name is Bella Moretti. I'm thirty-four, and I've been married to Dante Moretti for nine years.
Dante was forty.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Dangerously handsome.
And the ruthless head of one of Chicago's most powerful mafia families.
People called him the Black Wolf.
He controlled shipping companies, warehouses, luxury hotels, and an underground empire that made dangerous men afraid to cross him.
But to me, he was my husband.
The man whose favorite coffee I remembered.
Whose suits I helped choose.
Whose silver cuff links I bought for our seventh anniversary.
That morning, Dante stood in our bedroom adjusting his charcoal jacket.
“Three days in New York?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Business, sweetheart.”
“Call me when you land.”
He kissed my forehead.
“Of course.”
I smiled.
I believed him.
Then I went to work.
For years, I'd managed one of Chicago's finest luxury hotels.
I loved my job.
The busy mornings.
The complicated reservations.
The satisfaction of making sure every guest received exceptional service.
Dante knew where I worked.
But lately, he'd stopped asking about my days.
He didn't know when I covered reception.
Didn't know which suites I personally supervised.
And clearly, he hadn't bothered to check who managed the hotel where he planned to spend three romantic nights.
That afternoon, I was reviewing reservations when the glass doors opened.
A tall man entered with a beautiful blonde woman holding his hand.
I recognized his suit first.
Then his cuff links.
Then his face.
My husband.
Dante Moretti.
Standing in my hotel.
With another woman.
My fingers froze above the keyboard.
She leaned closer to him.
Straightened his lapel.
And he caught her hand and kissed her fingers.
I'd seen that gesture a thousand times.
He used to do it to me.
My assistant noticed my expression.
“Mrs. Moretti? Are you all right?”
I swallowed.
“Of course.”
Then Dante approached the counter.
He was still looking at his phone.
The blonde woman admired the chandeliers.
“You were right,” she told him. “It's much better than that hotel in New York.”
Dante smiled.
“I told you I'd get you the best.”
I looked at her wrist.
An expensive diamond bracelet.
Eight thousand dollars.
I'd noticed the purchase on our household credit card two weeks earlier.
Dante had told me it was a business gift.
Now I knew exactly who had received it.
Bianca Voss.
His mistress.
I straightened the papers in front of me.
“Good afternoon. Do you have a reservation?”
Bianca smiled.
“Moretti.”
I slowly typed my own married name into the system.
The reservation appeared.
Three nights.
Presidential Lake Suite.
One king-size bed.
Champagne on arrival.
Rose petals.
Breakfast for two.
Then I noticed the special request.
ROMANTIC OCCASION.
My throat tightened.
Nine years of marriage.
And Dante had never booked that suite for me.
Never surprised me with rose petals.
Never arranged a weekend like this.
Apparently, he knew how to be romantic.
Just not with his wife.
I placed my hands flat against the counter.
Waited until they stopped trembling.
Then lifted my eyes.
“Your reservation is confirmed, Mr. Moretti.”
Dante finally looked up.
His expression changed instantly.
The color drained from his face.
“Bella?”
Bianca stopped smiling.
She glanced between us.
“Dante? You know her?”
I held out my hand.
“May I see the primary guest's identification, please?”
Dante stared at me.
“Bella, what are you doing here?”
I smiled politely.
“Working, sir.”
His jaw tightened.
“We need to talk.”
“Of course. But I'll need your identification first.”
Bianca slowly released his arm.
“Who is she, Dante?”
He didn't answer.
So I did.
“Bella Moretti. The hotel manager.”
Then I looked directly at her.
“And his wife.”
Bianca's face turned pale.
Dante stepped closer.
“Bella, please. Let me explain.”
I glanced at the cuff links I'd bought him.
Then at the diamond bracelet on Bianca's wrist.
“You told me you were going to New York.”
“I know.”
“You kissed me goodbye this morning.”
“Bella—”
“And now you're checking into my hotel with your mistress.”
His expression hardened.
He glanced nervously toward the other guests.
The man who frightened half of Chicago suddenly seemed terrified that someone might overhear us.
I reached beneath the counter.
Picked up the room keys.
And placed them gently in front of him.
“Enjoy your stay, sir.”
Dante didn't touch them.
I slid the registration form toward him.
“There's just one more thing.”
He looked down.
“Your signature, Mr. Moretti.”
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Bianca whispered:
“Dante… you said you weren't married anymore.”
I slowly raised my eyes.
May you like
My husband went completely still.
And suddenly, I realized that while Dante had been lying to me about his business trips, he'd been telling his mistress an entirely different story about our marriage.
