A Traitor's Debt

I trusted my husband of three years. Completely. Until he muttered in his sleep, "My little treasure, Daddy's taking you and Mommy to the new house tomorrow."

That's when I knew. He wasn't just cheating. He had a bastard on the way.

In the darkness, I made a vow. This heartless man was going to pay.

It was 3 AM.

Vincent mumbled something in his sleep. I was about to roll over, but then I made out the words.

"My little treasure, Daddy's taking you and Mommy to the new house tomorrow."

I was wide awake.

What new house? What little treasure? We didn't have kids. For three years, he’d said he wanted to focus on his career, kept putting it off.

A sliver of moonlight cut through the curtains, landing on Vincent’s face. He was sleeping soundly, a satisfied smile on his lips.

I quietly reached for his phone.

My thumb unlocked it. He never hid anything from me, which made what I found next a special kind of hell.

I went straight to his bank transfers.

Recipient: Carmen Rodriguez. Amount: $800,000. Memo: Deposit for the villa.

My hand started to shake.

It wasn’t just rage. It was a surge of adrenaline. A thrill, even. The kind you get when your body reacts before your brain can, knowing your life is about to blow up.

I searched "Carmen" in his contacts and pulled up her social media.

First post: an ultrasound photo. Caption: "My little angel, four months along."

Second post: a brand-new Maserati, with a Hermès charm on the key. "Thanks to my man for the surprise."

Third post: A Bvlgari bracelet on her wrist—worth $150,000. The same one Vincent told me he’d bought as a "client gift."

The irony was thick enough to choke on. When we got married, Vincent was just starting out. I didn't want to hurt his pride, so I was the one who suggested a small wedding. No fancy jewelry, nothing.

Back then, Vincent held my hand, tears in his eyes, and promised he’d make it up to me, ten times over, as soon as he made it.

Looks like he was making it up to another woman.

I kept scrolling.

Vacations by the sea, dinners at Michelin-star restaurants, first-class on a private jet. Every photo dripped with luxury. And the girl in them couldn't have been older than twenty-five, with tight skin and a killer body.

Her latest post, from 11 PM last night: "Movie night at home with my man. This is what happiness feels like."

At 11 PM last night, Vincent told me he was stuck at the office, handling an emergency.

I placed the phone back where I found it and walked into the living room to call my father's consigliere.

"Uncle Dante, it's me, Isabella."

"Princess? So late?"

"I need my father's help. Vincent betrayed me. And he betrayed the Family."

A short silence.

"What do you need?"

"A full rundown of all of Vincent's business dealings. Copies of every contract. And a complete background check on a Carmen Rodriguez. I want it all in my hands by sunrise."

"Done. Anything else?"

I glanced back at Vincent, sleeping soundly in our bedroom. My voice was so calm it scared me.

"Get the divorce papers ready. I want him to walk away with nothing."

After hanging up, I went back to the bedroom and lay down beside him. He rolled over and draped an arm over my waist, just like always.

But this time, everything was different.

I closed my eyes and started planning. Marconi women don't cry. We don't get hysterical. And we sure as hell don't forgive.

We get even.

And we make traitors pay a price they can't afford.

At dawn, I walked into the study and opened the safe only I knew the code to. Inside were all the confidential files on Vincent's business dealings—as his wife, I had access to everything.

I took a photo of every single document.

Game on.