Erasing Mrs. Moretti

Five years into my marriage to Dante Moretti, the Don of the Chicago Outfit, the entire underworld knew he loved me more than life itself.

He’d had a violin—for me—tattooed right next to his family crest, a symbol of loyalty that could never be erased.

Until I got the photo from his mistress.

A cocktail waitress, sprawled naked in his arms, her skin marred by the dark bruises of rough sex.

She had scrawled her name right next to the violin he’d gotten for me.

And my husband had let her.

"Dante says only being inside me makes him feel like a man anymore. You can’t even get him hard anymore, can you, sweet Alessia? Maybe it’s time to step aside."

I didn't reply. I just made a single call.

“I need a new identity. And a plane ticket out.”

The taunting messages from my husband’s mistress started two months ago.

Photos of them tangled in bed, explicit details of his obsession with her body… the brutal truth of their affair was laid bare.

I didn’t confront him. I quietly arranged for a new identity and gave myself a deadline: seven days.

In an abandoned warehouse on the west side of Chicago, a single, flickering bulb cast a weak yellow glow.

I pushed a thick stack of cash across the table to the man in the flat cap.

"I need a new identity," my voice echoed in the cavernous space. "The name is Ava."

The man picked up the bills, fanning them with a practiced thumb. The rustle of the money was loud in the silence. "Passport, driver's license, the whole nine yards?"

"The whole nine yards." I nodded, my fingers clenching the leather purse on my lap. "And a bank account with a credit history."

"That'll be double." He looked up, a gold tooth glinting in the dim light.

I didn't hesitate. I pushed out another stack.

The man stuffed the cash into his jacket, then leaned forward, his voice low. "One week. But I gotta warn you, lady—once you use this new ID, the past has to be dead and buried. The Moretti family has eyes and ears everywhere in this country. You leave one single trace, they'll find you."

I stood, my heels clicking sharply on the concrete floor. "I understand."

My resolve was steel.

Twenty minutes later, I was lying on a table in a private tattoo parlor.

The sharp zap of the laser removal machine was a counterpoint to the dull ache in my chest as the eagle crest of the Moretti family slowly vanished from my collarbone. The pain was excruciating, like a hot poker searing my skin over and over.

But I clenched my jaw and didn't make a sound.

I just felt the five years of memories, my love for Dante, being burned away, just like the ink.

It was eleven P.M. when I returned to our mansion in Lincoln Park. The eight-million-dollar Victorian villa, Dante’s wedding gift to me, now felt