Ch 003: A Table for Judgement

~ALESSIA~

———

The ride to the restaurant feels longer than it really is, probably because my mind is still looping one thing over and over again.

PLEASURE ESCORT. EX ADULT ACTOR.

That black business card from Nico’s apartment has seared itself into my brain like a mark.

I keep picturing him—those sculpted hands gripping a woman’s thighs as he moves inside her. I imagine the kind of moans he must’ve pulled from women who pay for his touch.

And goodness gracious, I wonder if there are still videos of him on those adult sites. Perhaps if I can just type in his name, I’ll see videos of him and his co-actors on camera.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. My thighs press together, a poor attempt to shut out the heat pulsing between them. It is stupid. Shameful even. But it doesn’t stop the images from dancing in my head.

“We’re here, Mrs. Mancini.” His voice breaks through my dirty thoughts.

I blink and look up. Nico is already parked outside the restaurant.

He steps out of the car and opens my door, then extends a hand.

I stare down at his long, veined fingers.

How is he always this composed? So composed, despite what I’ve just discovered about him. It reminds me of how he’d stayed calm during that dildo incident.

“Mrs. Mancini?” He asks smoothly again.

I snap out of my daze and slip my hand into his. His grip is firm and warm as he helps me out of the car.

As I stand, I glance down at my dress as if I am seeing it for the first time. It is a simple silk flared dress, knee-length with a black and white bow detail on one shoulder. My stilettos match the elegance. But I still feel my confidence wavering slightly.

Because this is nothing like a ‘friendly gathering’. It is a gathering of thinly veiled judgements behind false smiles. Girls who aren’t ‘friends’ but competitors, waiting to pick at any flaw.

“You look lovely, Mrs. Mancini.” Nico says behind me, and I nearly stumble.

Get a grip, Alessia!

“Thanks.” I mutter, quickly pulling my sunglasses from my purse and slipping them on.

I don’t even look at him again. I cannot afford to start swooning every time he opens his mouth. My ego will never recover.

He walks behind me as we enter the restaurant through the revolving doors. The air inside is cool and smells like fresh pastries. My eyes scan the space, until I spot them.

Sitting around a long table, chit-chatting and laughing, are eight women. All dressed to kill.

I brace myself.

Nico, thankfully, doesn’t follow me all the way. He peels off silently and takes a table not far.

Which is good, because the last thing I need is him breathing down my neck while these women dissect me one after the other.

“Guys, look! Alessia is here!” A too-sweet voice rise from the table; cheery, high-pitched, and fake.

I force a smile as I walk closer, heels clicking loudly against the marble floor as the women all wave at me ‘heartily.’

It is only when I drew closer that I realize, quite excruciatingly, that the first girl who had waved at me is, in fact, Becca.

As if her face is a remote, the image of her riding my husband slams back into my skull. Her smug little smirk as she locked eyes with me mid-thrust. Their moans. The slap of skin on skin.

My gut twist in disgust and hatred. Still, I manage to reach them.

“Hey, Alessia!”

They all greet at once with sugary smiles.

I keep my own smile frozen in place as I pull out a chair and sit directly across from Becca. She is delicately biting into a strawberry, her gaze locked on mine.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” I say smoothly, crossing one leg over the other.

“Oh, it’s fine.” Victoria; wife of the Montessari Cartel boss, waves it off.

If I haven’t mentioned it before, our world is tightly knit. We only date and befriend our own. Cartel to cartel. Mafia to mafia. A clean bloodline. Fewer risks, they say.

Victoria leans forward, lowering her voice with a curious twinkle in her eyes.

“Who’s the hot guy that just walked in with you?”

I follow her gaze to Nico who is sitting at a table not far from us, flipping through a fashion magazine, calm as ever. He looks like his rightful place is in those pages.

I quickly pull my gaze back before it lingers too long.

“No one special,” I say, clearing my throat. “Just my personal bodyguard.”

“You have a bodyguard now?” Fabiola asks, her brows lifting in surprise. Fabiola is our polished cartel lawyer.

She leans forward slightly to get a better look at him. “Why’s he so hot?”

I sip my wine slowly, trying not to roll my eyes as the table breaks into soft giggles and gasps like teenage girls around a poster boy. For nearly a full minute, the attention swivel away from me and straight to Nico.

Including Becca.

I see the way she looks at him. Her teeth tugged lightly at her bottom lip, her gaze dragging over his body like she is picking out which part of him to unwrap first.

The same bitch who is fucking my husband is now eyeing my bodyguard as if he was her next dessert.

I clench my jaw so hard it aches.

Eventually, the conversation drifts back to the table. Weddings. Designer bags. Yachts and beach vacations. Husbands buying villas in Tuscany.

The usual circus.

“Did you hear?” Victoria chimes again, flashing her diamond bracelet as she sips champagne. “Your cousin just bagged an MBA at London Business School. Becca’s such a genius, Alessia. You must be so proud to have her.”

I turn to Becca, who wears her praise like a crown as she eats her strawberries daintily.

“Congratulations, cousin.” I say through a brittle smile, the words burning the back of my throat.

If only they knew she is fucking my husband. I wonder what they’ll say about her.

But of course, I’ll rather keep it a secret than allow my name to be dragged through the mud too.

Still, as the conversation drones on, my gaze cannot help slipping back to Nico whose attention is still swallowed by that magazine. I keep picturing that black business card.

Pleasure escort. Ex adult actor.

How long has he worked in that industry? Why did he leave? How many women have fallen apart under his hands?

A flush creeps up my neck at the thought. I press my knees tighter together.

“Alessia?”

I blink and turn as Marie, the surgeon of the group, addresses me while cutting neatly into her steak.

“What have you been up to? You’ve been ghosting the group chat again.”

“Nothing, really,” I answer, playing with the rim of my glass. “Just here and there.”

A few vague murmurs follows—“mmm,” “ahh,” “same here.” But their attention moves on quickly. I should be embarrassed. These women are winning awards, running firms, buying private jets.

Meanwhile, my biggest accomplishment lately is not moaning when I think of Nico.

“Alessia?”

Fabiola waves her long, manicured hand in front of me, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Becca has something she wants to share.”

I turn to Becca, who looks like she’d been waiting for the spotlight all along.

She brushes a hand through her perfectly flat-ironed hair, her smile coy and radiant.

“I wasn’t going to say anything yet,” she says, pausing with a dramatic flair. “But I just couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.”

Everyone leans in slightly. And then she says it:

“I’m pregnant.”

The table bursts.

“Oh my God, really?”

“Congrats, babe!”

“No wonder you look so good! It’s that pregnancy glow!”

The women coo and gush, reaching for her hands, throwing compliments up and down.

But me? I sit still. Frozen.

My throat closes. My gaze locks on hers, and she looks back at me. She’s smirking, eyes gleaming. A silent message only the two of us understand.

She is pregnant.

With my husband’s baby.