Alessandro Moretti

Nine years ago, Alessandro Vittorio Moretti had fallen in love with a nineteen-year-old model whose career was only beginning to take off. He had been twenty-five, already wealthy, already powerful, and utterly convinced that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Two years later, they married. She gave up the runways and international campaigns at his request, exchanging a promising career for the security of becoming Mrs. Moretti.

For a while, they had been happy. Then came three pregnancies and three losses, including their son Lorenzo, who had died before he ever had the chance to take his first breath. Alessandro had grieved, withdrawn, and eventually found comfort elsewhere. Eighteen months ago, he met Valentina, a beautiful young Italian woman who was now twenty-one, five months pregnant, and carrying the son he had desperately wanted.

The breakfast room of the Moretti estate was quiet that morning. Alessandro sat at the head of the table, reviewing messages on his phone while the housekeeper finished setting out breakfast. He wore a charcoal suit, his dark curls still slightly damp from the shower. His wedding ring remained on his finger.

"There's something we need to discuss." He placed his phone beside his coffee and looked across the table at his wife. "Valentina will be moving in on Saturday. Her doctors would prefer she avoid unnecessary travel, and I want her here for the remainder of the pregnancy."

He reached for his espresso, entirely unhurried. "I've instructed the staff to prepare the east wing for you. You'll have your own bedroom, sitting room, and whatever else you require. Valentina will be staying with me in the master suite."

This arrangement is overdue. We haven't shared a marriage in any meaningful sense for years. At least now everyone can stop pretending otherwise.

"There's also the nursery. I've arranged for the decorators to begin work next week. The furniture will be replaced, and Valentina has already chosen a color scheme."

Lorenzo's nursery. The room that had remained untouched since his death, with its carefully selected furniture and tiny clothes still waiting in the drawers.

Alessandro stirred his coffee once before continuing. "Naturally, none of this changes your position in the family. You're still my wife, and I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly. You'll continue attending public functions with me, wearing your ring, and maintaining appearances. Our private arrangements are nobody else's business."

He finally set his spoon down. "And before you ask, no, I'm not discussing a divorce. You'll retain your allowance, your staff, and every privilege you've always enjoyed. I'm not throwing you out onto the street."

She's going to make this difficult. I know she is. But Valentina is carrying my son, and I'm not going to apologize for wanting them both under my roof.

Alessandro unfolded his newspaper, apparently satisfied that the matter had been settled. "I'd appreciate it if you had your belongings moved by Friday evening. I'd rather everything be finished before Valentina arrives."

The annual Moretti Foundation charity gala was one of Manhattan's most prestigious social events. Politicians, wealthy donors, influential businessmen, and their impeccably dressed spouses would gather beneath crystal chandeliers, exchanging pleasantries over champagne while photographers documented the evening for society magazines.

And Alessandro Vittorio Moretti needed his wife on his arm.

Not Valentina, his twenty-one-year-old mistress, who was five months pregnant with his son and currently enjoying the comforts of the Moretti estate. Not the woman he loved. His legal wife, whose presence maintained the respectable image his family had spent generations cultivating.

At six-thirty, Alessandro made his way to the east wing, already dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. He knocked twice before opening the door without waiting for an invitation.

"The car leaves in forty-five minutes."

He adjusted one of his cufflinks, his expression composed. "My mother has arranged for the emerald necklace to be brought up. Wear it tonight. The photographers always comment on the family jewelry."

He glanced at his watch. "Senator Whitcomb and his wife will be attending, along with several important business associates. I expect you to be pleasant, attentive, and appropriately affectionate. We haven't appeared together publicly in weeks, and I have no intention of encouraging speculation."

One evening. A few photographs, some polite conversation, and everyone goes home satisfied. Surely she can manage that much.

His phone vibrated.

Valentina: Have a good evening, amore. Don't stay out too late. Our little boy misses his papà already. ❤️

A faint smile touched Alessandro's mouth as he typed his reply.

Alessandro: I'll be home as soon as I can, tesoro. Rest. Ti amo.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and returned his attention to his wife. "And you'll wear your wedding ring. I'm not having another argument about that."

He paused beside the doorway. "If anyone asks about our marriage, everything is perfectly fine. If they ask about children, tell them we're enjoying our privacy. I don't want Lorenzo brought into the conversation, and I certainly don't want anyone discussing Valentina."

She used to be exceptional at these events. Charming, beautiful, perfectly at ease among people who had more money than manners. There's no reason she can't manage it again.

Alessandro straightened his jacket. "I'll be downstairs. Don't keep me waiting."

Six weeks ago, Valentina had given birth to Leonardo Vittorio Moretti, a healthy baby boy who had quickly become the center of Alessandro's world. His mistress was recovering comfortably in the master suite, surrounded by attentive staff, expensive gifts, and a husband in all but name who seemed incapable of denying her anything.

Alessandro hadn't asked Valentina for sex since the birth. She needed time to recover, and he respected that. He loved her, and her comfort mattered more than his impatience.

His wife, however, was another matter entirely.

It was nearly eleven when Alessandro entered the east wing. He had just left Valentina sleeping beside their son's bassinet, kissed her forehead, and promised to return shortly.

He opened his wife's bedroom door without knocking.

"Evening." Alessandro stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He was still dressed in his dark suit trousers and white shirt, although his tie was already loose around his neck.

He removed his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, then unfastened his watch and placed it on the dresser. "Valentina's doing well. Leonardo finally slept for four consecutive hours last night. Hopefully, we'll all be getting some proper sleep soon." He began unbuttoning his shirt, entirely untroubled by the circumstances of his visit.

Christ, it's been weeks. Valentina needs her rest, and I'm not going to bother her about sex while she's recovering. But I have a wife. I don't see why I should have to go without.

"Take your clothes off."

The instruction was delivered casually, without embarrassment or hesitation. Alessandro slipped another button free before looking toward his wife.

"I'm staying here tonight. Valentina needs to sleep, and I have no intention of disturbing her." He pulled his shirt free of his waistband. "Don't misunderstand the situation. This doesn't change anything between us. I love Valentina, and I'm not interested in pretending otherwise."

I'm not asking for romance. I'm asking for something that used to be perfectly ordinary between us. She's still my wife.

Alessandro paused, his shirt hanging open, and regarded her with the same cool authority he brought to every other aspect of his life.

"Well? You heard me."

Alessandro Vittorio Moretti had tolerated many things from his wife. Her resentment, her accusations, her refusal to accept Valentina's place in his life. He had even tolerated her repeated demands for a divorce, secure in the knowledge that the prenuptial agreement, her financial dependence, and his considerable influence made leaving him an extraordinarily difficult undertaking.

What he would not tolerate was betrayal.

The envelope arrived at his office shortly after four. Inside were copies of correspondence with a Manhattan divorce attorney, preliminary financial disclosures, and a proposed legal strategy for challenging the prenuptial agreement. Someone had been helping his wife obtain information about assets she wasn't supposed to know existed.

That someone was Matteo Moretti.

His own fucking brother.

Alessandro spent nearly twenty minutes reading the documents before summoning Matteo to his office. Their confrontation lasted less than five.

"You gave her access to family financial records."

Matteo stood opposite the desk, his expression guarded. "I helped her find a lawyer."

"You helped her build a case against me."

"She wants a divorce, Alessandro."

"And you thought you'd help her get one?"

"Someone has to." Alessandro stared at him.

He's standing in my office, admitting to betraying me, and he doesn't even have the fucking decency to be afraid.

"Get out of my sight, Matteo."

His younger brother didn't move immediately. "She's not your prisoner, Sandro."

Alessandro's voice dropped. "Keep talking, and you'll discover exactly how little our blood means when you cross me."

Matteo left without another word.

By eight that evening, Alessandro had canceled his remaining appointments, instructed security to keep Matteo off the estate, and ordered his wife to report to his private study.

The divorce documents lay across his desk when she arrived. Alessandro stood behind it, his jacket discarded, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled to his forearms. A glass of untouched whiskey sat beside the papers.

"Close the door."

He waited, then picked up the attorney's letter. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" His voice was almost conversational. "You went behind my back. You involved my brother. You obtained confidential financial information concerning an organization that people have died protecting."

Alessandro dropped the letter onto the desk.

"And you thought I would simply sign your fucking divorce papers?"

She has no idea how dangerous this is. Or perhaps she does, and she's finally decided to test how far she can push me.

He came around the desk, his expression devoid of warmth. "Let me explain something to you. Matteo is my brother. I grew up with him. I protected him. I've trusted him with responsibilities I wouldn't give to anyone else."

He paused.

"And if he forces me to choose between him and the organization, I'll have him killed."

There was no raised voice, no theatrical display of anger. Alessandro delivered the statement with the same cold certainty he used when issuing orders to his capos. "I'll bury my own brother before I allow him to dismantle what I've built. Don't imagine for one second that being family makes him untouchable."

I hope to God he comes to his senses. But if he doesn't, I'll do what needs to be done.

Alessandro picked up the prenuptial agreement. "As for you, I suggest you reconsider how much you're willing to lose."

He placed the agreement beside the divorce petition. "Your lawyer can challenge this. You can drag my name through every courtroom in New York. You can tell yourself that Matteo's money and connections will protect you." His grey-green eyes hardened. "But if you expose this family's business, if you attempt to take anything that threatens my organization, I will stop treating you as my wife and start treating you as a liability."

He stepped closer.

"And liabilities disappear."

For several seconds, the only sound in the study came from the antique clock above the fireplace.

I loved her once. I meant every promise I made. But that woman is gone, and I won't sacrifice everything I've built for the person standing in front of me now.

Alessandro returned to his desk and picked up his whiskey. "You have until tomorrow morning to withdraw the petition and cut off contact with that attorney. Matteo will receive his own instructions."

He took a measured sip. "And understand this very clearly. If you force my hand, I won't spare you because we were married. I won't spare Matteo because we share a father."

He set the glass down. "I've buried people I cared about before. Don't make the mistake of believing I couldn't do it again."