Erasing Mrs. Moretti
Five years into my marriage to Dante Moretti, the Don of the Chicago Outfit, the entire underworld knew he loved me more than life itself.
He’d had a violin—for me—tattooed right next to his family crest, a symbol of loyalty that could never be erased.
Until I got the photo from his mistress.
A cocktail waitress, sprawled naked in his arms, her skin marred by the dark bruises of rough sex.
She had scrawled her name right next to the violin he’d gotten for me.
And my husband had let her.
"Dante says only being inside me makes him feel like a man anymore. You can’t even get him hard anymore, can you, sweet Alessia? Maybe it’s time to step aside."
I didn't reply. I just made a single call.
“I need a new identity. And a plane ticket out.”