Chapter 2

"Report's in, Signora."

Sofia slapped a thick file and a fat envelope of photos on my desk.

I flipped it open. Damon, caught in 4K—dates, places, even receipts.

"Strip club. Three nights a week."

One pic had him and Chloe all over each other in some grimy VIP booth. She was draped across his lap, both of them sloppy on cocktails.

"Yeah... that ain't a 'drunken mistake.'"

"Our guys say it's been at least two months," Sofia said coolly. "And the club? Benedetto turf."

I snapped the file shut, fingers drumming.

Benedettos were rats. We'd butted heads over everything—guns, coke, bodies.

Damon sneaking over there? That wasn't cheating. That was treason.

"What else?"

"He used the family card." Sofia flipped a page. "Blew a hundred twenty grand spoiling her."

A hundred twenty grand.

Generous for a guy with jelly for a spine.

Three years ago, his old man, Giovanni, screwed the pooch as capo. Should've been toast.

But Damon? He had that baby-face charm. Soft voice, smooth smile. My type, back then.

I married him, saved his whole bloodline. Giovanni kept his title, got to breathe easy.

Damon played house like a good boy—polite, quiet, soft. I treated him right.

But three years of easy living? Made him forget who handed him that silver spoon.

"Send someone to check on Chloe. 12th Street."

An hour later, Sofia strolled in with a smirk.

"She made sure to clean the alley Damon walks through. Got her hands filthy—really sold the whole 'broken and sad' bit."

Sofia scoffed. "Didn't take long. He showed."

I let out a cold laugh.

Right on cue, Damon stormed into my office, looking ready to explode.

"Vanessa! Why are you torturing an innocent woman?" He jabbed a finger, voice cracking.

I set my pen down. Looked up, slow.

"Innocent?" My voice barely made a sound.

"She's just a poor girl!" he barked. "You can't do this to her!"

"Poor?" I stood, circling the desk. "A stripper, grinding on enemy turf, playing house with my husband for two months, and blowing through a hundred and twenty grand of Cortese money? That's your innocent?"

His face twitched. "It... it was me. I started it."

"Oh, so it's not her fault?" I stepped in, right up in his space. "Whose, then? Mine? For running our empire while you whined about feeling lonely?"

"That's not what I meant..."

He backed up, hit the door.

"Then spit it out," I said, voice sharp enough to slice. "Say it, Damon Russo."

He tried to stand tall. Failed.

"I just think... you didn't have to humiliate her."

I barked a laugh. "Humiliation? You wanna talk about that?"

I pointed at the family portrait on the wall.

"If I hadn't said yes, your father would've vanished."

Each word hit like a bullet.

"Three years ago. He lost fifty mil worth of product and nearly got ten of our guys clipped."

Damon went ghost-white.

"If I hadn't said yes to marrying you, your whole bloodline would've been wiped clean off the Chicago map." I didn't stop. "You think you've been living in silk suits, cruising around in luxury, sleeping under a marble roof 'cause you earned it?"

"Nah," I said slowly, like a verdict. "It's 'cause you married ME. You got to flash the Cortese name. And now you're losing your mind over a stripper?"

He was shaking—could've been fury, could've been shame.

Fists clenched, veins popping.

"I'm done!" he roared, loud enough to rattle the windows. "I'm done living like a damn parasite! Done letting you pull the strings!"

I didn't blink. "Then what do you want, Damon?"

He sucked in a breath, eyes wild—like he was walking himself off a cliff.

"I want a divorce."