The Don's Forsaken Wife

The next morning, they discharged me. So I went home to pack. The house was quiet—too quiet. His shoes by the door. His jacket on the chair. The scent of his cologne still clinging to the sheets. I opened the closet. His suits hung in neat rows. The Patek Philippe watch he'd given me on our second wedding day sat in its velvet box. I left it there. I pulled a suitcase from the wardrobe. Clothes. Toiletries. The ultrasound photo I'd hidden in my nightstand. I looked at it once, then slipped it into my bag. I needed to go to the firm's offices. To sign the papers. To make it official. The elevator opened, and I heard a voice behind me, amused and careless. "Who stole my cashmere wrap? Now I'm freezing. You owe me a hot drink." A man's low chuckle on the other end of the line. "I'll warm you up myself later." I turned. Mara Vitali. Flawless, composed, a half-smile playing on her lips. She was still on the phone. "Do you still have that thermos in your drawer? Or did you finish it all?" The elevator walls mirrored us—one woman luminous and laughing, the other drained and hollow. She didn't notice me. Why should she? I hardly recognized myself. A man's voice filtered through the earpiece, deep and intimate: "You know I can't stay away from you." She giggled. "If your wife heard that, she'd file for separation again." "Let her. She always comes back. She doesn't know how to leave." The air in the elevator was refrigerated, but I felt my throat closing. She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Are you trying to make me jealous? Careful, or I'll march into your conference room and announce that Don Vittorio Rossetti is having an affair. With his former mistress." A soft laugh. "Be smart. Don't let her find out." The doors parted. He was there. Vittorio. My husband. The Don. Pressed suit, polished shoes. He stepped forward, slid his hand around Mara's waist, and kissed her. She giggled and pushed him away. He pulled her back and kissed her again, harder. She tapped his chest. "We have an audience..." Vittorio glanced up. I turned my face away, but not fast enough. "Let her look," he said, his voice flat. "It's not what she thinks." Mara pressed against him, laughing softly. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "I only came back to grab a file," he murmured. "I hate being away from you." She smiled. "Fine. Tonight, you can make it up to me." The elevator descended to the parking level. I followed like a shadow. They got into his car. The license plate was my birthdate. The car began to sway. I stood in the cold, the damp seeping through my shoes, and watched. No one knew. The first time Vittorio and I were together, it was in a car like that. His hands had been shaking, his breath uneven. He kept asking if I was sure. I nodded, and he laughed, said I was too good for him. "I'll never make you cry, Claudia." Later, he wrapped me in his jacket and turned the heat to maximum. I leaned against his shoulder and talked about the future—a house by the lake, a garden full of flowers. He promised. Whatever I wanted. He'd build it for me. He built an empire instead. We married. Three years of happiness. Then I found him in bed with Mara, his underboss's sister. I filed for divorce. I wanted nothing. The day the paperwork arrived, he jumped from the office balcony. He survived, broke his hip. In the hospital, he begged me to stay. I stayed. I fed him, bathed him, massaged his legs until he could walk again. We remarried. He was softer, more attentive. Swore he'd never betray me again. And now. The barely healed wound on my heart was ripped open. Bleeding fresh.