My breath falters as I scroll down, and the video plays again from a different angle. The woman’s face is clearly visible and I recognize her instantly, the model from La Terrazza. I’m aware they had a past, and it reinforces my hope that the footage is indeed old…This isn’t what it looks like. I don’t realize I’ve said that out loud until Melanie’s voice drifts into my ear… reminding me she’s still on the line. “That’s from a day ago. I’m sorry, Bella…”
My pulse spikes as I scan the comments under the video.
“Dombrina! MY AESTHETICALLY PLEASING SHIP!!! Guys, I told you they’re meant to be.”
“Honestly, they look better together.”
“My friend saw them at the hotel bar yesterday.”
“Isn’t he married? smh.”
The phone slips from my grip, falling to the ground, and I don’t bother to pick it up. My feet carry me upstairs, and for a fleeting second, I pause at the door to his bedroom. My hand even hovers near the handle, trembling, because some part of me—some pathetic, desperate part—wants to run inside, bury my face in his pillow, and inhale whatever proof of him still lingers there. But at the same time, the thought makes bile rise into my throat, so I stumble to my room.
Slamming the door shut, I press my back against it, my breath coming out harshly. The sound that escapes from me is strangled…half sob, half gasp. My knees give out, and I fall to the ground shaking violently.
I’d spent the whole day preparing for him…counting the hours like a lovesick puppy, while the rest of the world saw what I was to him. Nothing. Less than nothing. The tears keep coming, and I cry until my throat burns, until my head feels too heavy to keep my eyes open.
Chapter twenty-four
Dominic
I watch as the doctor wraps a bandage around Matteo’s head and chest. Half his face is swollen, a black eye already turning purple, a fractured rib, and one hand taped where a knuckle split open. He insisted he didn’t need a doctor, but with all the fucking mishaps going on in this mafia, a dying second-in-command is the last thing I need.
By the time the doctor exits the room, the questions in my head are loud enough to taste. Dragging a palm down my jaw, I keep my eyes fixated on the door. “We have to fucking find that mole before we sustain even greater casualties.” Matteo grunts, a sound mixed with pain and anger. I snap my gaze to him. Of course. But what fucking bastard is sleek enough to remain several steps ahead of us?
Something foul explodes in my chest as I study Matteo, debating whether or not to tell him what’s on my mind. Only both of us were privy to that information. And I didn’t fucking dish it out. That automatically leaves me with one person.
I’ve never had a reason to doubt Matteo, but I won’t lie—imagining him as anything but a loyalist is starting to feel necessary.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I ignore it, pacing the length of the small room. I yank my fingers through my hair, tugging harshly at the strands when my phone starts to vibrate again.
“Goddammit,” I hiss, digging it out.
My chest jolts, then drops when I see the name. Marcello. I haven’t needed him in months, not since that fucking journalist tried to drag my reputation through the mud. If my publicist is calling, it’s not to ask how my night’s going.
I jab the button, putting it on speaker. “Marcello.”
“Mr. Moretti, there’s a video circulating,” he begins without preamble.
“How bad?” My voice stays flat because anger tastes better than panic.
“I just sent it to you.”
I open the attachment he sent, and the video that fills the screen makes my blood boil. Me, on a bed with Sabrina. Her head is thrown back, mouth parted in a soundless moan, and her hands clawing at my shoulders as my body moves over hers. It’s obscene how convincing it looks, yet a dozen little things are wrong if you know where to look.
The light is too smooth, the motion almost too clean, and our skin bends wrong at the edges. Unfortunately, most people won’t pause for the details. They’ll see Dominic Moretti in a compromising position with a woman who isn’t his wife.
My hands go white around the phone. “It’s a fake,” I say, more to myself than to him.
“Technically, yes. But it’s convincing enough in a scroll. I can start takedowns, push a deepfake narrative, get our forensics on it—”
“Do whatever the fuck you have to do to take it down in the next thirty minutes.”
I hang up before he can answer. For a moment, the room is silent except for the grind of my teeth. Matteo looks at me expectantly, but I ignore him, striding to take a seat on a small chair tucked into a corner of the room.
I don’t care about headlines. I don’t care about wolves on social media or vultures in the press. Let them feast. Until a thought drills straight through my rage.
There’s one person I care about. My wife. It surprises me the way it lands. When did she stop being just a complication and become the axis my whole fucking life tilts on? Somewhere between the lies, the blood, and the nights I swore I didn’t need anyone, she slipped past my guard.
