Mommy, Please Divorce Daddy

The seventh time Dante Moretti served me divorce papers, I was sitting with my son in a cheap diner on Chicago's South Side.

I forced a smile and brushed my hand over my son's hair. "Just wait a little longer, sweetheart. This time, Mommy will get custody of you."

He stayed quiet for a long moment.

Then he looked up and asked, “Mommy, how much do you need to sell me for before you're happy?”

Before I could answer, he pulled a handwritten divorce agreement from his backpack and pushed it toward me.

"I know you keep fighting Dad for me because you want more money from him."

"I wrote the agreement for him. Please sign it. Dad is already tired. Stop making his life so hard."

His handwriting was crooked, but every word had been written with care. Dante would give me three million dollars.

At the bottom, in my son's childish scrawl, was one more line.

[After you take the money, don't bother me, Dad, and Serena anymore. Let us be happy.]

Serena was Dante's childhood sweetheart.

The woman he trusted more than his own wife.

For five years, I had stood against Dante's family, his lawyers, and half the Chicago underworld just to keep custody of my son.

For him, I would've walked away with nothing.

But the child I had raised for eight years had already chosen another mother.

So why shouldn't I give their perfect little family exactly what they wanted?

...

The seventh time Luca Bellandi served me divorce papers, I was sitting with my son, Noah, in a worn little Italian restaurant in Chicago's Little Italy.

Snow drifted past the windows. Noah sat across from me in his St. Ambrose uniform, bow tie straight. He slid a folder across the table to me.

[Petition for Dissolution of Marriage]

The agreement inside was written in blue ballpoint pen on a sheet torn from Noah's homework notebook, the lines crooked, the words pressed so hard they nearly cut through the paper.

Property settlement: five hundred thousand dollars to Mom.

Additional clause: After taking the money, Mom can't bother Daddy, me, or Serena anymore.

Serena Valenti. Luca's "temporary adviser." And the childhood sweetheart he'd grown up with.

For five years, I'd endured the Bellandi elders' cold faces, Luca's lawsuits, and every rumor he let spread because I wanted custody of my son. For Noah, I'd have walked away from the estate, the jewelry, and the shares with nothing.

But the child I'd raised for eight years already wanted another mother.

I looked down at that agreement, and my chest tightened until I could barely breathe.

"Noah, your father is the Don of the Bellandi family. He owns port contracts, security firms, casinos, and investment funds. One watch on his wrist is worth more than five hundred thousand dollars. Why do you think that's all I deserve?"

Noah wrinkled his nose. "Because you don't work."

"Serena wears suits and goes to the family office. She handles contracts and helps Daddy with the capos. You just cook, do laundry, and remind me to take medicine. Maria gets six thousand dollars a month as a nanny. I gave you a lot because you're my mom."

In my son's eyes, that money could buy eight years of sleepless nights, the damage childbirth left in my body, and the career I buried to care for his weak heart and dangerous allergies.

Outside, a black Bentley waited at the curb. Luca sat in the back, dark coat, cigarette in hand, out of patience.

"Was this agreement your idea," I asked, "or did your father tell you to write it?"

Noah frowned. "Of course it was mine. Daddy said you're stubborn and keep using me to trap him. He said he gave you too many chances."

He hesitated, then added, "And yesterday you made a scene at the office. Serena was upset. She didn't even kiss my forehead this morning."

Yesterday, after losing custody for the sixth time, I went to Bellandi headquarters to find Luca. The Michigan Avenue building was all cold glass and black-suited guards. I wore an old sweater and sneakers and carried Noah's medicine case.

The receptionist looked me over and smiled.

"Service entrance is in the alley, ma'am. Cleaning staff don't use the front doors."

A young family assistant whispered loudly enough for me to hear, "That's the Don's legal wife. Soon-to-be ex, probably. They say she won't sign because she wants a bigger payout."

Before I could answer, Serena Valenti swept in on slim heels, wearing a black cashmere coat, pearls, and a Patek Philippe. The receptionist straightened at once. "Miss Valenti."

Less than a minute later, Luca came down in his private elevator.

He saw snow on Serena's coat and immediately draped his own over her shoulders. He saw me too, saw the red mark on my hand where a guard had shoved me, saw me shaking in the lobby.

Serena leaned into him. "Luca, the New York capos were awful. I skipped dinner for you."

"You worked hard," he murmured.

He opened a velvet box. Inside was a rose-shaped diamond brooch.

"An apology," he said. "I should have met you at the airport."

Serena smiled, then noticed me. Her expression cooled.

"Don Bellandi," she said, deliberately formal, "clean up your household before bringing me into it. A woman who can't live without a man standing here makes the whole family look cheap."

I stepped forward. "I only came to discuss Noah's custody."

"Talk to my lawyer," Luca said.

"His heart was racing last night. The doctor said he can't take that kind of stress. You took him to the range and let him watch you interrogate a man."

"Enough."

Serena coughed and pressed two fingers to her temple.

Luca immediately turned to her. "Are you all right?"

Then he lifted a hand. Two guards seized my arms and dragged me toward the door. I hit a marble column, and blood from my nose dripped onto the white floor. Luca looked at it for one second.

Serena whispered, "I don't want to see her."

So he looked away.

"Isabella," he said coldly, "don't think your last name lets you make a scene in my place. Your seat at the family table has been gone for years."