The Don’s Wife Was Never Weak Chapter 08

The Don’s Wife Was Never Weak Chapter 08

Luca received Marco’s warning at midnight—a single encrypted message detailing Catalina’s defection to the Morettis and the intelligence she’d carried with her.

According to Marco, Luca sat motionless for ten full minutes after reading it. Then he asked one question.

“Did this come from Isabella?”

“Yes.”

Another silence. Then, quietly: “She’s still protecting me.”

“She’s protecting your daughter’s father. She was very specific about the distinction.”

That landed exactly where I’d intended it to.

Over the following weeks, Luca fortified his operations. He changed every security protocol Catalina had known, rerouted shipments, relocated safe houses. It cost him millions and months of disruption—the price of trusting the wrong woman.

But the damage was already done. The Morettis, armed with Catalina’s intelligence, had moved on two of Luca’s territories before the changes took effect. A warehouse in Brooklyn. A distribution point in Newark—the same port I’d negotiated for the Calabresis.

The underworld was shifting, and Catalina Voss was at the center of it.

I tracked her movements through my father’s network with clinical precision. She was good—I’d give her that. She’d positioned herself as Enzo Moretti’s right hand within weeks, mirroring exactly what she’d done with Luca. Same playbook. Same tears. Same calculated vulnerability.

But the Morettis weren’t Luca. They were crueler, less sentimental, and far less likely to be swayed by a trembling lip. Catalina was playing a dangerous game, and she didn’t seem to realize the board had changed.

Meanwhile, my pregnancy progressed. Sixteen weeks. The morning sickness faded, replaced by a fierce, burning energy that I poured into the family business. I closed three deals in two weeks. I established a legitimate philanthropic arm—a foundation for women escaping dangerous relationships, funded by Calabresi holdings.

I called it “Sovereign.” Because that’s what every woman deserved to be.

The foundation made headlines. Interviews requested from every major outlet. I accepted one—a profile in Vanity Fair that my mother’s PR team carefully orchestrated.

The journalist asked about my marriage. I gave her one sentence: “I spent four years learning that silence isn’t the same as peace.”

When the article published, it trended for three days.

Luca saw it. Of course he did. Marco reported that he read it in his study, alone, and that afterward he pulled our wedding photo from a drawer and held it for a long time.

He also found something else during those weeks—something that turned his guilt into something darker.

While scrubbing Catalina’s digital footprint from his systems, his tech team discovered a hidden folder on the company server. Labeled with my initials: I.V.

Inside were surveillance logs. Not security footage—personal surveillance. Catalina had been tracking my movements within the Valentini mansion for months. My daily routine. My doctor visits. My phone calls. My emotional state, noted with clinical detachment: “I.V. cried in bedroom, 40 min. Did not tell L.” “I.V. skipped dinner third night in row. L. did not notice.” “I.V. searched pregnancy symptoms on tablet. Possible.”

She’d known. Or at least suspected.

The last entry was dated two days before I left: “I.V. packed personal items from office. Calm. No tears. Likely planning departure. Accelerate timeline.”

Accelerate timeline. She’d seen me preparing to leave and hadn’t warned Luca—she’d moved faster to secure her position before I was gone.

When Marco showed me the file, I felt something I hadn’t expected.

Not anger. Recognition.

Catalina hadn’t just been stealing my husband. She’d been studying me. Learning my patterns. Exploiting my silence the way a predator exploits stillness.

And the most damning part—the part that kept me awake that night—was the entry she’d made about the pregnancy search.

“Possible. If confirmed, useful leverage. Or useful complication.”

She’d considered my baby a strategic variable.

I closed the file, placed my hand on my growing stomach, and made a promise to the life inside me.

No one would ever use her as leverage. Not Catalina. Not Luca. Not anyone.

She would be born into power, not traded for it.