The Iris Lie

Three months my husband's been gone. I thought my heart was broken. Then I walk into his favorite den and find him fucking another woman.

Thirty minutes earlier.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors of Club Allegro, what passed for a gentlemen's club in the heart of Chicago.

This was Moretti territory. No uninvited guests.

It was the first time I'd set foot in Julian's private den in three months. I just wanted to feel his presence, to remember his warmth.

But then I heard his laugh.

It came from a room in the back, followed by the sweet, low moans of a woman.

"Julian, you're a genius," the woman's voice was sickly sweet. "Faking your own death. And getting that little artist wife of yours to fall for it."

"Seraphina?" Julian scoffed. "She's a pretty, empty doll my father made me marry. A political move to strengthen our position. Now, I'm finally free."

Ice flooded my veins.

Through the crack in the door, I saw him—my husband, "dead" for three months. He was caressing a blonde's face, his eyes full of a love he never showed me.

Bianca Rosso. Daughter of our main rivals.

"Honey, are you sure no one will find out?" Bianca was sitting on his lap, her fingers tracing the tattoo on his chest.

The iris flower. He told me it was a symbol of our eternal love. A fucking lie.

"Don't worry, I've got it all planned," he said, kissing her neck. "Once the dust settles, we're off to Europe. With the money I'm pulling from the family vault, we'll live like kings."

"And Seraphina?"

"Let her keep playing the widow. All she knows is how to paint. Without me, she's nothing."

My fists clenched, my nails digging so deep into my palms I could feel blood. The pain kept me sharp.

I slipped out of the club and got back in my car.

My hands were shaking, but I dialed the number for St. Andrew's Church.

"Father Gabriel, it's Seraphina." My voice was steady, betraying none of the storm raging inside me. "I need to arrange a memorial mass for my husband. A full, formal service."

"My child, are you sure? That would mean..."

"I'm sure. Please inform the key members of the Family. Tell them Julian Moretti's widow wishes to pray for his soul."

After I hung up, I started sending formal notices to every capo in the family.

An hour later, my phone rang.

"Seraphina, are you out of your fucking mind?" It was Tony, one of Julian's guys. "Call off the goddamn mass! Julian's alive!"

"Is he?" My voice was sweet as honey. "That's wonderful news. If he's alive, why doesn't he come and tell me himself?"

There was a beat of silence. Then, his voice dropped, turning dangerous. "Be careful, Seraphina. You're playing with things you don't understand."

"Is that a threat, Tony?" I laughed softly. "Don't forget whose wife I am."

I hung up and drove back to our mansion on Lake Shore Drive.

The sharp click of my heels was the only sound in the cavernous, empty house.

I went straight to Julian's study and punched in the code to his private safe. It was half-empty.

His collection of custom Berettas was gone.

The platinum ring, the Moretti family heirloom, was also missing.

All that was left were a few useless papers and empty gun racks.

It finally hit me. All those nights I spent lighting candles and praying for him, he'd been sneaking back in, taking the things he actually cared about.

And I was never on that list.

The tears finally fell, and I started to laugh.

A quiet, broken sound in the dark.