The Iris Lie

Three months since my husband, Julian Moretti, disappeared.

I walked into his favorite den, the grief so deep it stole the air from my lungs.

I just wanted to breathe him in, to find any trace of him that was left.

Then I heard it. A familiar laugh. And the soft moan of a woman.

Through a crack in the door, I saw him.

My husband, the man "missing" for three months, had his hand tangled in another woman's hair.

"Baby, just a little longer," he said. "Soon as I siphon enough cash from the family's books, we're gone. You and me."

In his arms was Bianca, from the Rosso family.

"What about your wife?" she purred.

"Let her play the grieving widow. She's nothing without me anyway."

My fists clenched. The world went quiet, my blood turning to ice.

The next day, I put the word out to the entire Family.

"I'm holding a memorial mass for my husband."

At the service, he stormed in, a ghost returned from the grave, roaring that he was alive and there to take back what was his.

But I was standing next to his uncle, Dante Moretti, and all I did was stare him down.

"Then explain," I said, my voice cutting through the silence. "Explain the woman. Explain the money. Explain your betrayal... to the Family. And to me."

Three months my husband's been gone. I thought my heart was broken. Then I walk into his favorite den and find him fucking another woman.

Thirty minutes earlier.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors of Club Allegro, what passed for a gentlemen's club in the heart of Chicago.

This was Moretti territory. No uninvited guests.

It was the first time I'd set foot in Julian's private den in three months. I just wanted to feel his presence, to remember his warmth.

But then I heard his laugh.

It came from a room in the back, followed by the sweet, low moans of a woman.

"Julian, you're a genius," the woman's voice was sickly sweet. "Faking your own death. And getting that little artist wife of yours to fall for it."

"Seraphina?" Julian scoffed. "She's a pretty, empty doll my father made me marry. A political move to strengthen our position. Now, I'm finally free."

Ice flooded my veins.

Through the crack in the door, I saw him—my husband, "dead" for three months. He was caressing a blonde's face, his eyes full of a love he never showed me.

Bianca Rosso. Daughter of our main rivals.

"Honey, are you sure no one will find out?" Bianca was sitting on his lap, her fingers tracing the tattoo on his chest.

The iris flower. He told me it was a symbol of our eternal love. A fucking lie.

"Don't worry, I've got it all planned," he said, kissing her neck. "Once the dust settles, we're off to Europe. With the money I'm pulling from the family vault, we'll live like kings."

"And Seraphina?"

"Let