I Faked an Affair on My Mafia Husband ,Now He Won’t Let Me Go Chapter 01

I Faked an Affair on My Mafia Husband ,Now He Won’t Let Me Go Chapter 01

My sister Beatrice Conti was vacationing in Europe, celebrating her third wedding anniversary.

She asked what I wanted as a gift. I asked for an anonymous SIM card from overseas.

I held the SIM card, standing in an empty hotel room, and let out a tired breath.

Then I put on that flimsy, lace-trimmed nightgown I’d bought just for this plan.

I looked in the mirror and painted those messy, suggestive hickeys along my collarbone and neck.

Hickies, dotting my skin like some man had been there, rough and demanding.

I even tore one strap of the nightgown—like he’d done it.

Then I took my carefully applied lipstick and smudged it all over my mouth.

I sat on the bed and messed up the other side to look like someone had slept there.

I closed my eyes hard.

Third-person angle, camera on timer.

Three, two, one.

The woman in the photo looked like she’d just been thoroughly appreciated, passed out without a care.

I stared at it for a long time.

I couldn’t help thinking about the reputation Lorenzo had in the New York mafia.

They called him “Ice Man”—never blinked when putting a bullet in someone, always wore that polite smile that’d freeze your blood across a negotiating table.

He became the youngest Don in De Luca family history at thirty-two. In three years, he’d swallowed three rival families, made FBI agents curse behind their monitors, and made other godfathers look away from his eyes at the poker table.

But the face I knew best was that cold, emotionless one.

Beautiful, sure. But every ounce of feeling he had was reserved for my sister.

Me? I was a pawn on his power chessboard.

A niece of the Conti family on the West Coast, married off as a “hostage bride” after our family crumbled.

I’d braced for the worst.

Even if Lorenzo felt nothing for me, no man can stand a woman betraying him.

He might come after me.

But in the end, he’d be disgusted, furious—and he’d divorce me.

I just needed a divorce. I just wanted out.

I closed my eyes and hit send.

On the screen: that smug little text message—

“Hey man, she’s fragrant. When you gonna let her go? We’re planning to run off together (＾ｖ＾)”

And that photo.

Sent.

Not even two seconds later.

My phone buzzed.

Lorenzo: “Who is this?”

I took my sweet time changing clothes.

Drawing it out, just to be petty.

Was he losing his mind right now? Imagining chopping some anonymous bastard into tiny pieces?

The golden boy, Mr. Perfect his whole life, finally having someone else jerk him around for once? And it’s me—the one he’s always had under his thumb?

Three years of misery and boredom, and finally, a little thrill.

I got dressed, and Lorenzo sent two more messages in the meantime.

“Don’t use this pathetic AI face-swap. State your business.”

“I suggest you come clean yourself. I’ll leave you intact in some construction site’s concrete foundation.”

I laughed out loud.

“I’ll be looking at your wife plenty from inside witness protection, man.

“Wondering if it’s AI? Why don’t you ask your wife yourself?”

“The hickeys on my baby’s neck aren’t gonna fade that fast (＾ｖ＾).”

I was bold because I knew Lorenzo was out on Long Island, handling a traitor problem.

He wouldn’t be back for two weeks, minimum.

Next thing I knew, my actual phone started ringing.

I almost jumped out of my skin.

Lorenzo’s name flashed on the screen.

I bit my lip, staring at it until it stopped.

Then it lit up again. He wouldn’t quit calling.

I knew then—I’d really gotten under his skin.

My heart was pounding like crazy. I knew I was walking a tightrope over a pit of knives.

I texted: “Hey man, quit calling. We did it five times. Your wife’s passed out asleep.”

The calls stopped.

Dead silence on my end.

I grabbed the anonymous SIM: “I’m not trying to break you two up, man. Your wife and I are genuinely in love. Be a good sport and divorce her already, let her come to me. Otherwise, word gets around you’re wearing a green hat, and that’s just embarrassing.”

No reply from Lorenzo.

I tossed the torn nightgown, checked out of the hotel, and went back to the mansion.

The staff were cleaning.

Everything was normal. Quiet, like nothing had happened.

Washed up, went to bed.

Early morning, sky still gray, I half-heard engines roaring and tires screeching outside.

When my brain caught up and my eyes flew open, someone knocked on my bedroom door at the same time.

“Vieve. Open the door.”

The voice was cold, controlled to a razor’s edge, but underneath it—a thread of something raw and impatient.

I was wide awake now, like ice water down my back.

It was Lorenzo.

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