The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 01

The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 01

Prologue
Four years into an arranged marriage, I’d been spoiled so rotten I was practically insufferable.

Then I accidentally overheard my husband talking with his buddies in a private room at our favorite restaurant. I’d come to surprise him, to demand the dessert I’d been craving all night, my thumb hovering over his contact info after a dozen ignored messages. Instead, I got a surprise of my own.

“That’s brutal, Vito. Give it time, and she’ll be eating out of your hand.”

“Can’t blame you for putting up with that temper of hers.”

“Three more months till your agreement with the wife expires, right? I can already picture her bawling her eyes out, haha.”

His laugh followed. Low. Easy. The laugh of a man who had everything under control.

I went stone-cold sober real fast. The blood drained from my face so fast I felt lightheaded. My manicured nails dug into the leather of my handbag until I thought they’d snap.

No more drama. No more tantrums. No more demanding cakes at ten o’clock at night or pouting when he worked late. I just wanted to come out of this divorce in one piece, with whatever dignity I had left.

Except my husband was losing his mind in the group chat three days later, unaware that I’d heard everything:

【Who the hell changed my wife’s settings???】

【My perfectly insufferable wife suddenly got… nice?! What the hell is that about? Is she planning something? Is she sick?】

【Now every swinging Richard from here to Sicily is gonna be lining up for her!!!】

Vito Colobo’s buddy was back in town, so they’d made dinner plans at that old Sicilian place on Mulberry Street – the one with the red-checkered tablecloths and the owner who called me “little Mrs. Colobo” and pinched my cheeks like I was his own granddaughter.

At 9:30 PM, I was doom-scrolling in bed, wearing one of Vito’s old t-shirts that hung off one shoulder, when I found this new dessert spot on some food blogger’s page. The photos were obscene – a molten chocolate cake that oozed warm fudge when you cut into it, beside a scoop of vanilla bean gelato. And what do you know – it was right around the corner from where they were eating.

I screen-shotted that post and fired it off to him without a second thought:

【Vito! I want this. Right now.】

【They close at ten. Grab it for me on your way out. Don’t forget.】

【Vito. VITO. Are you ignoring me?】

But Vito didn’t text back.

No typing bubbles. No read receipt. Nothing.

That’s when I knew something was up.

Normally, even when he’s in the middle of “work” – the kind of work that involves hushed voices, locked briefcases, and the occasional soundproofed room – he gets back to me within five minutes. Tops. The men in his organization all knew: the Don’s phone was always on for his wife. Always. No exceptions.

Unless he was in something truly ugly. And if that were the case, his consigliere would’ve called me already.

I bit my lip. Hit the call button.

Straight to voicemail. Three times in a row.

Now, I wasn’t stupid enough to think he was stepping out on me – the man couldn’t sneeze without three of his guys reporting it back to me before he’d even reached for a tissue. But I was still ticked off. We’d just had a blowout over adopting a stray cat I’d found in a parking lot, and I was still a little raw about it. He’d said no. I’d said I wasn’t asking. He’d said that’s exactly the problem.

I threw on a leather jacket over my t-shirt, grabbed my keys, and decided to go catch him red-handed. If he was going to ignore me, he was going to have to do it to my face.

—

The restaurant was one of our regular spots. Vito had brought me here on our third date – back when we were still feeling each other out, still pretending we were just two people who happened to be married. The owner, this old Sicilian guy named Sal, lit up when he saw me walk through the door.

“Little Mrs. Colobo!” he beamed, wiping his hands on his apron. “The Don didn’t say you were coming.”

“He doesn’t know,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Which room?”

He pointed me straight to the private room at the end of the upstairs hall. No hesitation. Everyone knew you didn’t lie to the Don’s wife.

I headed upstairs. My boots were quiet on the old wood, but my heart wasn’t. It was hammering so loud I was sure they’d hear me coming.

The door was cracked open. Warm yellow light spilled into the hall, along with the smell of red wine and cigar smoke and something roasting in the kitchen below.

Just as I reached for the handle, I heard a voice I recognized – Luca, Vito’s right-hand man, the one with the broken nose and the surprisingly soft heart.

“That’s brutal, Vito. Give it time, and she’ll be eating out of your hand.”

“Little trick I picked up.”

Vito’s laugh. Low. Easy. The kind he uses when he’s talking shop, not when he’s at home with me.

“Can’t blame you for putting up with that temper. The rest of us? No chance. Seriously, what are you, some kind of glutton for punishment?”

More laughter. Glasses clinking. The murmur of other voices – there were at least four or five of them in there.

My nails dug into my palms. I tried to talk myself down, the way I’d learned to do in therapy. Maybe they weren’t talking about me. Maybe “she” was someone else. Someone Vito was doing business with. Someone with a reputation.

Because what’s in it for Vito, right? The most powerful don in five boroughs could have any woman he wanted. Why would he waste four years tying me up in knots just to watch me fall?

I almost convinced myself.

Then the other shoe dropped.

“Three more months till your agreement with the wife expires, right? I can already picture her bawling her eyes out, crying on the floor like a baby. You gonna film it?”

“Heh.” A pause. The clink of an ice cube against glass. “Keep it quiet, yeah? Otherwise, I’ve been wasting my time for nothing.”

So that was it.

Vito had been buttering me up – four years of patience, of gentleness, of “anything you want, babe” – just to watch me crash and burn. He wanted me dependent. Desperate. So broken down by my own tantrums that I’d have nowhere else to go when the clock ran out.

I turned around and walked back down the stairs. One foot in front of the other. My reflection in the hallway mirror looked pale and shocked, like a ghost of the woman who’d walked in five minutes earlier.

I didn’t cry until I was in the car.