When A Quiet Woman Snaps
The Moretti Family's Thanksgiving party was in full swing downstairs—crystal clinks, fake laughs, classic mafia gloss.
Meanwhile, I was curled up in a servant's room on the third floor. Jackson Moretti's wife. Legally, anyway.
My hands were ice. I gripped the ultrasound report like it could anchor me. Three heartbeats. Strong, steady.
It was supposed to be a surprise—his big Thanksgiving gift.
To the outside world, Jackson was a polished Stanford grad, running a top-tier consulting firm in San Francisco. But behind the scenes? He ran the Moretti empire—cold, calculated, pulling strings in the West Coast's darkest corners.
Three years of marriage and we barely spoke, but I still clung to
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