Chapter 1 - The Champagne Satin Robe
My husband, Blake Moretti, the powerful and feared Mafia boss who controlled one of New York's most ruthless criminal organizations, dragged me out of our bed while my best friend pulled my pillow against her chest.
“She’s staying in this room,” Blake snapped, his voice cold, heavy, and unyielding. “You can go sleep downstairs in the guest quarters.”
Then Vanessa looked me straight in the eye, smoothed down the white silk sheets, and smugly declared that she had been using my private dressing room for weeks.
I didn't scream. I didn't engage in a crude physical fight with him. Instead, I reached for the adjoining suite door.
Blake had completely forgotten that particular door opened from both sides.
“Amelia, I'm talking to you!” Blake roared, his face contorting in sudden frustration.
His heavily tattooed fingers tightened around my wrist like iron bands.
I yanked my arm free with a sharp, calculated motion and turned back to face him in the dim light of the chandelier.
“I heard you, Blake.”
Vanessa shifted uncomfortably against our pristine white silk sheets, clutching the pillow I had slept on for eleven years of marriage. Her bleach-blonde hair fell over one bare shoulder. She was wearing the expensive champagne satin robe I had personally bought for her thirty-second birthday six months ago.
“Please don't make this ugly, Amelia,” she whispered, trying to project a delicate, vulnerable image.
I stared at her, my blood running cold. “It's my bedroom, Vanessa.”
She didn't answer me directly. Instead, she turned her eyes toward Blake, seeking his protection.
That quiet, non-verbal exchange hurt far worse than seeing her lying in my bed.
Blake stepped assertively between us, his expensive white tailored shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the intricate black ink tattoos covering his muscular chest and extending up his broad neck.
At thirty-five, Blake Moretti was a imposing, powerful man with neatly styled dark hair, a sharp jawline covered in short dark stubble, and piercing obsidian eyes that could instantly silence even his most dangerous Mafia lieutenants. He commanded a multi-billion-dollar criminal empire built on extreme wealth, absolute loyalty, and lethal fear. Men twice his age bowed their heads when he entered a room.
But tonight, he was using that same terrifying authority to publicly humiliate his own wife.
“You've known things were bad between us for months, Amelia,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Stop pretending this came completely out of nowhere.”
“Bad enough to move my best friend into our marital bed?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm.
His jaw tightened. “Lower your tone.”
“Why? Are we disturbing her rest?”
Vanessa let out a small, irritated sigh, adjusting the satin sash around her waist. “Amelia, honestly, you're making me feel like some crazy stranger who broke into your home.”
I looked at the woman who had once called me her only true family.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen long years of shared birthdays, holiday dinners, hospital waiting rooms, and tearful late-night phone calls. Three years earlier, Vanessa had called me from a cheap motel bathroom, weeping and terrified of an abusive ex-fiancé who controlled her bank accounts and monitored her phone.
I had driven two hours in a blinding rainstorm to get her. I brought her into this very penthouse, gave her our luxurious guest suite, and paid three months of her apartment rent when she finally decided to move out on her own. When she needed professional work, I personally introduced her to a high-paying corporate client looking for a public relations consultant.
Now, she was sitting in my bed, wearing my clothes, telling me how uncomfortable I was making her.
“Actually,” Vanessa said, her voice dropping into a snide, defensive pitch as she smoothed the duvet, “I've been staying here far more than you realize.”
Blake shot her a quick, sharp warning look.
She ignored his warning entirely. “I've been using your private dressing room for weeks. Blake told me you wouldn't mind sharing.”
For a second, my brain struggled to process her words. “My dressing room?”
“The one right beside the primary bathroom.”
“I know where my dressing room is, Vanessa.”
Vanessa's cheeks flushed a subtle shade of red. “There's really no reason to be nasty to me.”
I turned around and walked straight toward my walk-in closet.
Blake lunged forward, catching my elbow in a firm grip. “Where do you think you're going?”
“To look.”
“Amelia, leave it alone.”
I yanked my arm away from his grasp and pushed open the mirrored closet doors.
Inside, my designer shoes had been shoved onto the bottom shelves like trash. My neatly folded cashmere sweaters sat in uneven, messy piles in the corner. Vanessa's expensive leather handbags occupied the glass display case where I kept my late grandmother's antique jewelry boxes.
And hanging directly beside my custom burgundy velvet evening gowns was a pale blue cocktail dress I had personally helped Vanessa choose at a boutique last spring.
I reached out and touched the delicate silk sleeve.
She had worn that exact dress to a private dinner with Blake and me four months ago. A dinner where she had held my hand across the table and told me how incredibly lucky I was to have a hard-working husband who provided such a safe, luxurious life for me.
Behind me, Blake said, “It's just clothes, Amelia. Don't start another ridiculous argument.”
I turned around to face him. “Another?”
He rubbed his forehead in annoyance. “You know exactly what I mean.”
“No. Explain it to me, Blake. I want to hear it.”
Vanessa appeared in the doorway of the closet, her satin robe tied tightly around her waist. “We were honestly trying to spare your feelings, Amelia.”
I looked past her shoulder toward the unmade bed. “By sleeping together in my bed?”
Her expression hardened into something cold and spiteful. “You've barely been in this penthouse lately anyway.”
“I've been working,” I said.
“Exactly,” Blake cut in smoothly, seizing the excuse. “You're always working.”
I was an independent high-end interior designer. I had spent the last six grueling months finishing two major commercial projects in Manhattan, including a landmark restaurant renovation that had required me to work until late hours of the night. Blake had actively encouraged me to take both contracts. He had praised my ambition, telling me how proud he was of my success.
Now, he was taking those very same late nights and using them as a weapon against my loyalty.
“I asked you last Tuesday if something was going on between you two,” I said, looking Blake dead in the eye.
Blake looked away toward the floor. “You were already acting paranoid.”
“Because you stopped coming home for dinner. Because you smelled like floral perfume.”
Vanessa crossed her arms over her chest, letting out a dry laugh. “Honestly, Amelia, you can't expect everyone to just keep waiting around for you forever.”
I stared at her, marveling at the sheer depth of her sociopathic entitlement. Then, I walked over to the marble nightstand, picked up my phone, and tapped the screen.
Blake's voice sharpened instantly. “Who are you calling?”
“No one.”
“Then put the phone down right now.”
I slipped the phone securely into the side pocket of my dress. “No.”
His dark eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “This is my penthouse too, Amelia. You're not going to turn tonight into some ridiculous public spectacle in front of my men.”
There it was.
Even as the most feared Mafia Don in New York, a man who ordered executions without blinking, Blake still arrogantly believed I was the same quiet, compliant society wife who would swallow any humiliation just to keep our marital breakdown out of the tabloids.
“You can go stay downstairs in the guest quarters tonight,” Blake continued, taking a step toward me. “We'll discuss the permanent separation arrangement tomorrow morning.”
“Arrangement?” I asked.
“Vanessa needs somewhere safe to live.”
“Vanessa has her own apartment in SoHo.”
“Not anymore,” Vanessa chimed in quickly, her voice wavering slightly.
I turned my head to look at her. “What happened to your apartment?”
She hesitated, her eyes darting nervously toward Blake.
Blake answered for her, stepping into her space. “That's none of your concern, Amelia.”
The woman I had rescued, fed, and funded had apparently surrendered her home before even bothering to inform me that she intended to steal mine. And Blake genuinely believed I would simply step aside and allow it to happen.
I turned around and walked directly toward the heavy mahogany adjoining door on the north wall of the master suite.
“Where are you going now?” Blake demanded, his voice rising in anger.
“I want someone else present for this conversation,” I said clearly.
Blake let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “Who? One of your little designer girlfriends?”
I placed my hand firmly on the brass door handle. “Someone who knows both of you very well.”
Vanessa suddenly stopped moving. The color drained from her face as her eyes dropped to the brass handle in my hand.
“Amelia...” Vanessa said softly, her voice suddenly trembling with a strange, dark panic. “Who... who is in that room?”
For the very first time that night, the arrogant mistress sounded utterly terrified.
I pulled the door open.
My younger sister, Chloe, stood on the other side of the threshold. She was fully dressed in a tailored black suit, her heavy leather handbag resting on the chair beside her.
I had asked Chloe to come over to the penthouse earlier that evening because I had finally decided to confront Blake about his financial secrecy and weird late-night absences. Neither Chloe nor I had ever expected to walk upstairs and find my best friend lying naked in my marital bed.
Chloe looked past my shoulder into the room. She saw Blake's open shirt. She saw Vanessa's satin robe. She saw my personal pillow propped up against the headboard.
Her face transformed from mild concern into pure, unadulterated fury.
“Chloe,” Blake said sharply, stepping forward, his voice automatically adopting the terrifying, authoritative tone that had intimidated countless men in his criminal empire. “This is a private marital matter. Get back into the guest wing.”
Chloe stepped past me, entering the primary bedroom with slow, deliberate steps. Then, she looked directly at Vanessa.
“You told me something very different on the phone two hours ago, Vanessa,” Chloe said, her voice dropping into a lethal whisper.
Vanessa clutched the mahogany doorframe, her knuckles turning white. “Chloe, please... let me explain—”
I turned to my sister, my stomach twisting. “What did she tell you, Chloe?”
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Chloe reached deep into her leather handbag, pulling out a thick manila folder filled with printed bank ledgers, wire transfers, and real estate deeds.
And Blake Moretti, the ruthless Mafia Don who had ordered me out of my own bedroom less than ten minutes ago, suddenly panicked, his face going completely ghost-white as he lunged forward to stop her.
