Chapter 1 - My Husband Threw Me Out for His Mistress—Then Matteo DeSantis Stepped Out of the Black Car in Our DrivewayThe night my husband threw me out for his mistress, he split my lip with a slap and handed me a black garbage bag for my belongings.
What he didn’t know was that the man he accused me of sleeping with wasn’t my lover.
He was Chicago’s most feared mafia boss.
And before this nightmare was over, Matteo DeSantis would put his ring on my finger.
“Take what’s yours and get out.”
Chase Whitaker stood in the foyer of the Highland Park home I had helped him buy, his hand still half-raised from hitting me.
Behind him, Brielle Sutton leaned against my staircase wearing my cream silk robe like she had already replaced me.
Rain hammered the windows, turning the November night black while blood filled my mouth with the taste of metal.
For one absurd second, I stared at my white sweater and wondered whether the stain would ever come out.
“Chase,” I whispered.
His face hardened.
“Don’t.”
Brielle folded her arms.
“I told you she’d play the victim.”
Then Chase shoved his phone toward me.
On the screen were photographs of me leaving the DeSantis Logistics building downtown nearly six weeks earlier, close to midnight, with Matteo DeSantis walking beside me.
Another picture showed Matteo opening a car door for me.
A third caught us standing beneath an awning while rain poured around us.
From those angles, it looked intimate.
The truth was painfully simple.
I had been trying to save Chase’s racing career.
His primary sponsor was preparing to walk away, so I had gone to Matteo with a sponsorship proposal.
The meeting ran late.
The parking garage elevator was broken.
Matteo had escorted me downstairs himself.
That should have been the end of it.
Except Matteo DeSantis wasn’t merely a powerful businessman.
He was the head of Chicago’s most feared crime family, a man whose legitimate empire stretched across freight, construction, hotels, and real estate while his real power lived in whispered conversations, back rooms, and the terror his name created.
“You met with DeSantis at midnight?” Chase demanded.
His voice changed when he said Matteo’s name.
Even men like Chase knew there were certain people in Chicago you never crossed.
“You knew I was meeting potential sponsors,” I said. “You could have asked me.”
Brielle laughed softly.
“At midnight? Sure.”
That was when I noticed the two wineglasses in the kitchen.
The open bourbon bottle.
Our wedding photograph missing from the mantel.
Something cold settled inside me.
“Are you sleeping with her?”
Chase scoffed.
Brielle answered without hesitation.
“Yes.”
One word.
Eight years destroyed by one word.
“How long?”
Chase looked away.
Brielle smiled.
“Four months.”
Four months.
Four months while I packed his meals.
Four months while I arranged therapy sessions.
Four months while I studied his telemetry.
Four months while I contacted sponsors and kept three handwritten journals documenting every limitation left by the crash that had nearly ended his career.
I had sold my car to pay for the private training facility he insisted he needed.
“You act like I couldn’t have done any of this without you,” Chase said bitterly.
I stared at him.
“I slept beside your hospital bed for thirty-nine nights.”
He rolled his eyes.
“When everyone else stopped believing Chase Whitaker could race again, I didn’t.”
“You want a medal?”
“No.”
My voice cracked.
“I wanted a husband.”
His face changed.
Brielle looked away.
I continued.
“I wanted the man who promised that if I carried us through the worst year of our lives, we'd enjoy the good years together.”
“You're so dramatic.”
“You had three broken ribs, a fractured pelvis, and nerve damage in your left leg.”
“I remember my own injuries.”
“Do you remember who helped you shower?”
His jaw tightened.
“Who drove you to physical therapy?”
“Stop.”
“Who convinced your sponsor not to cancel your contract?”
“Elena.”
“Who sold her car?”
“I said stop.”
“Who—”
His hand struck my face before I saw it coming.
My shoulder slammed into wall.
Brielle gasped.
But when I looked at her, satisfaction was hiding behind expression.
Chase stared at his hand for half a second.
Then his shame twisted into anger.
“Look what you made me do.”
Something inside me died.
Not cracked.
Not bent.
Died.
“No,” I said quietly.
His brows pulled together.
“What?”
I wiped blood from my lip.
“No.”
“You were screaming at me.”
“I wasn't screaming.”
“You pushed me.”
“I never touched you.”
“You kept provoking—”
“No.”
I looked directly at him.
“You hit me because you decided hitting me was easier than hearing me.”
His face reddened.
“Get out.”
“Gladly.”
I turned toward stairs.
Brielle blocked me.
“Chase said take what matters.”
I stared.
“What?”
She lifted black garbage bag.
“You don't need everything tonight.”
I almost laughed.
This woman was standing in my house, wearing my robe, deciding which possessions I deserved.
Then headlights swept across rain-soaked windows.
A long black sedan stopped at end of driveway.
Another behind it.
Then a black SUV.
Chase went completely still.
Brielle's confidence disappeared.
I looked through glass.
Rear door opened.
Matteo DeSantis stepped into rain.
No umbrella.
Black overcoat.
Dark suit.
Broad shoulders.
At thirty-eight, Matteo had the kind of face magazines called severe when they were too polite to call it dangerous.
Dark hair.
Dark eyes.
A pale scar near his jaw.
He walked toward house while two men followed several yards behind.
Chase whispered:
“What the hell is he doing here?”
I didn't know.
Doorbell rang.
Nobody moved.
It rang again.
Chase looked at me.
“You called him.”
“No.”
“You lying—”
“Careful.”
Brielle whispered:
“Chase, open door.”
He did.
Matteo stood beneath porch light.
Rain had darkened shoulders of his coat.
His eyes moved from Chase—
to Brielle—
to me.
Then stopped.
My lip.
Blood on sweater.
Garbage bag.
Something changed in his face.
“Elena.”
“Mr. DeSantis.”
His eyes stayed on injury.
“What happened?”
Chase stepped forward.
“Nothing.”
Matteo looked at him.
“I didn't ask you.”
Silence.
I swallowed.
“My husband hit me.”
Matteo's eyes became completely still.
Chase laughed nervously.
“It's not what she—”
Matteo raised one hand.
Chase stopped speaking.
That frightened me more than shouting would have.
Matteo looked at me.
“Do you need medical attention?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then looked at garbage bag.
“Are you leaving?”
“Apparently.”
“Do you have somewhere safe to go?”
Chase snapped:
“Why do you care?”
Matteo turned.
“I came here to discuss business with your wife.”
“My wife?”
Chase laughed.
“You mean woman you've been sneaking around with?”
Matteo stared.
“What?”
Chase held up phone.
“These.”
Matteo examined photographs.
Then looked at me.
Understanding appeared.
“These are from October seventh.”
“Yes.”
Matteo looked at Chase.
“Your wife came to my office to ask my company to sponsor you.”
Chase's expression shifted.
Matteo continued.
“She brought a forty-two-page proposal.”
Brielle's smile disappeared.
“She knew your medical history, audience metrics, contract obligations, recovery schedule, sponsor demographics, and every racing statistic from your career.”
He paused.
“She spent three hours explaining why I should invest four million dollars in a man I'd never met.”
Chase stared.
Matteo's voice hardened.
“And you thought she was sleeping with me.”
I felt something inside my chest crack.
Not because Matteo defended me.
Because Chase had never once asked what I had actually done in that meeting.
Matteo continued.
“I declined.”
Chase blinked.
“What?”
“I declined sponsorship.”
“Why?”
“That is why I'm here.”
Matteo reached into coat.
One of his men handed him folder.
He placed it on foyer table.
“Because my compliance department discovered irregularities.”
Chase went pale.
“What irregularities?”
“Your racing company submitted financial statements with forged vendor invoices.”
My breath caught.
Matteo looked at me.
“Some of those invoices were authorized under your name.”
“What?”
Chase moved.
“Elena handles administrative paperwork.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
“I haven't had access to company accounts since your accident.”
Matteo nodded.
“We know.”
Chase's eyes flicked toward him.
“How?”
“Metadata.”
One word.
Chase looked suddenly sick.
Matteo continued.
“The documents carrying Elena's electronic signature were created on your office computer.”
I turned toward husband.
“Chase?”
“It's bookkeeping.”
“Using my signature?”
“Nothing illegal.”
Matteo's expression suggested otherwise.
He opened folder.
“Three payments totaling six hundred eighty thousand dollars were made to Northline Performance Consulting.”
I knew that name.
“That's your new engineering consultant.”
Chase said nothing.
I looked at Brielle.
She looked terrified.
Matteo said:
“Northline Performance Consulting was incorporated eleven months ago.”
He looked directly at Brielle.
“By Brielle Sutton.”
My stomach dropped.
I turned.
“You own Northline?”
Brielle's face changed.
“It isn't what you think.”
I laughed once.
Apparently tonight had one sentence everyone loved.
“What is it, then?”
Chase stepped forward.
“Enough.”
Matteo looked at him.
“No.”
Chase froze.
Matteo opened another page.
“Your company transferred six hundred eighty thousand dollars into your mistress's shell company while reporting those payments to sponsors as vehicle development costs.”
I stared.
“How much?”
“Six hundred eighty thousand.”
Chase said:
“You have no right to—”
“I have every right when you submitted those financial statements to my company seeking four million dollars.”
Matteo looked at me.
“There is more.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“The crash.”
Chase's face went white.
Not pale.
White.
I noticed.
So did Matteo.
“What about the crash?”
Matteo studied Chase.
“Our analysts reviewed insurance documentation because a sponsorship agreement would have required liability assessment.”
He removed photograph.
The wrecked race car.
I knew image.
I had nightmares about it.
Matteo continued.
“Your husband's team claimed the crash resulted from steering-column failure.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn't true.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Elena,” Chase said.
I ignored him.
Matteo continued.
“The component identified in insurance claim was never installed in vehicle.”
Silence.
My ears rang.
“I don't understand.”
“The damaged steering assembly submitted to insurer came from another chassis.”
I turned toward Chase.
“You knew?”
He looked away.
“Chase.”
“It was complicated.”
My stomach twisted.
“What happened?”
Matteo's expression hardened.
“Telemetry suggests vehicle entered corner at nearly thirty miles per hour above team limit.”
I knew.
I had studied those numbers.
Chase had told me throttle sensor malfunctioned.
“The sensor.”
Matteo shook head.
“Working.”
I looked at husband.
“You lied.”
He swallowed.
“It was one mistake.”
“One mistake?”
“I was trying to beat lap record.”
“You nearly died.”
“I know.”
“You told everyone car failed.”
“My career would've been over.”
My body went cold.
“You committed insurance fraud.”
He didn't answer.
Matteo did.
“Yes.”
I remembered hospital.
Thirty-nine nights.
The surgeries.
The press conferences.
Chase crying because he believed manufacturer had failed him.
Me defending him online.
Me attacking journalists who suggested driver error.
Me selling my car.
My stomach turned.
“You let me believe it wasn't your fault.”
“I was injured!”
“You lied to me.”
“I was scared.”
“You let me build your comeback on a lie.”
Brielle whispered:
“Chase.”
He snapped:
“Shut up.”
Then looked at me.
“You think you're better than me because some gangster walks into our house?”
Matteo's men stiffened.
Matteo remained calm.
I said:
“This has nothing to do with him.”
“It has everything to do with him.”
Chase stepped closer.
“You've been waiting for excuse.”
“To what?”
“Leave.”
I stared at garbage bag.
“You threw me out.”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came.
I bent down.
Picked up bag.
Matteo said:
“Elena.”
I looked at him.
“My car can take you anywhere you choose.”
Not come with me.
Anywhere I chose.
That mattered.
Chase laughed bitterly.
“There. You see?”
I turned.
“See what?”
“He wants you.”
Maybe he did.
Maybe he didn't.
It no longer mattered.
I looked at man I'd loved for eight years.
“You cheated on me for four months.”
His face tightened.
“You stole money through her company.”
Silence.
“You forged my signature.”
Silence.
“You lied about the crash.”
“Elena—”
“And then you hit me.”
I lifted garbage bag.
“Matteo DeSantis didn't destroy our marriage.”
I looked toward Brielle.
“She didn't either.”
Then back to Chase.
“You did.”
I walked outside.
Rain hit face.
Cold.
Clean.
Matteo followed several steps behind.
At car he opened rear door.
Then stopped.
“Where?”
I thought.
My sister lived in Milwaukee.
Too far.
My closest friend was traveling.
Hotel?
I had wallet.
Credit card.
My own money.
“Hotel.”
“Which?”
“Somewhere Chase won't find me tonight.”
Matteo nodded.
“I own one downtown.”
I looked at him.
“Of course you do.”
For first time, his mouth almost smiled.
“You can choose another.”
“No.”
I was exhausted.
“Yours is fine.”
He waited until I entered.
Then walked around to other side.
He did not sit beside me.
He took front passenger seat.
Space.
I noticed.
Halfway downtown, phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Elena Whitaker?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Daniel Hargrove from Northwestern.”
My heart jumped.
Hargrove had been Chase's trauma surgeon.
“Doctor?”
“I apologize for calling late, but a man from DeSantis Logistics contacted my office regarding records from your husband's crash.”
I looked at Matteo.
He turned slightly.
“What is it?”
Doctor continued.
“There is something you need to know.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Your husband wasn't alone in vehicle that afternoon.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“There was a passenger.”
“No.”
Race car only had one seat.
Then I remembered test vehicle.
Different chassis.
Two seats.
Hargrove continued.
“A woman was brought to another hospital from crash scene before media arrived.”
My eyes moved toward Matteo.
“Who?”
“I don't know. Records were sealed.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because she was pregnant.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“Pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“Did she survive?”
Pause.
“The woman survived.”
“And baby?”
Longer pause.
“No.”
I closed eyes.
Chase had never told me.
Matteo turned fully now.
“Elena?”
I whispered:
“There was a woman in car.”
His expression changed.
I continued.
“She was pregnant.”
Matteo went still.
Then his phone vibrated.
He read message.
His jaw tightened.
“What?”
“Elena.”
“What?”
“Our investigators identified passenger.”
I stared.
“Who?”
He hesitated.
That frightened me.
“Tell me.”
Matteo looked directly at me.
“Brielle Sutton.”
The woman wearing my robe had not begun sleeping with my husband four months ago.
She had been in his car eighteen months earlier.
Pregnant.
While I was home preparing dinner for the man I thought was working late at the track.
And suddenly I understood something worse than betrayal.
May you like
Chase's comeback had never been built on one lie.
It had been built on an entire life I had never known existed.
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