He Chose The Mistress, I Took Everything

Elena Vitiello POV: The Vitiello estate was a fortress. High walls, armed guards, surveillance cameras angling from every corner. It was designed to keep enemies out. Tonight, however, it felt designed to keep me in. My ankle was swollen to the size of a grapefruit, throbbing with a dull, persistent rhythm. I sat on the edge of the bed in the guest room, staring at the wall. I had refused to enter the master bedroom. Earlier, Dante had tried to guide me in, his hand pressing against the small of my back, acting the part of the doting husband for the benefit of the house staff. I had recoiled from his touch as if he were radioactive. Offense had radiated off him instantly. His ego was so large it had its own gravitational pull; he couldn't fathom why I wouldn't want to share a bed with the man who had just humiliated me in the back of an SUV. I finished wrapping my ankle in an ace bandage, pulling it tight. The pain was grounding. It was real. Unlike the "love" Dante claimed to have for me. A tentative knock sounded at the door. I didn't answer. The door opened anyway. It wasn't Dante. It was Martha, the head of Human Resources for the Family's legitimate operations. She looked pale, her eyes darting nervously around the room. She held a tablet against her chest like a shield. "Mrs. Moretti," she said, her voice thin. "I... I need your signature." "On what, Martha?" "The transfer orders." I frowned, shifting on the bed. "What transfer?" She walked over with hesitant steps and handed me the tablet. I looked at the screen, the blue light harsh in the dim room. Project Lead Transfer: Waterfront Port Redevelopment. From: Elena Vitiello-Moretti. To: Sofia Ricci. The air left my lungs in a rush. "He did it," I whispered, the betrayal tasting like ash. "Mr. Moretti ordered it an hour ago," Martha said, her voice shaking. "He said... he said you were stepping down for health reasons. Stress." I stood up, ignoring the scream of protest from my injured ankle. "He is giving a multi-million dollar laundering operation to a woman whose only qualification is that she sleeps with him?" Martha looked down at her sensible shoes, unable to meet my gaze. "He said she has a vision." I threw the tablet onto the bed. It bounced harmlessly against the duvet. This wasn't just infidelity. This was a coup. The Port was my baby. I had bribed the city officials. I had designed the hidden compartments in the shipping containers. I had created the labyrinth of shell companies that made the money untraceable. It was my territory. And he was handing it to an outsider. "I am going to Headquarters," I announced. "Mrs. Moretti, please," Martha begged, taking a step back. "He is in a meeting. He gave strict orders-" "I don't care about his orders." I didn't bother to change my clothes. I limped out of the room, forcing myself down the grand staircase and out the front door. I bypassed the driver and took my own car. I drove to the Family Headquarters in downtown Manhattan. Every time I pressed the brake, white-hot needles shot up my leg, but I welcomed the agony. It kept me focused. The guards at the front desk looked nervous when they saw me storming in, limping but furious. "Mrs. Moretti, we weren't expecting you-" I walked past them to the elevator without a word. I went straight to the top floor. Dante's office. Through the glass walls I had designed myself, I saw them. Dante was sitting at his desk. Sofia was sitting on the edge of it, her legs crossed. She was holding a roll of blueprints. My blueprints. She was using a red marker to draw over my lines. She was laughing. I pushed the heavy glass door open. They both looked up. "Elena," Dante said. He sounded tired, not apologetic. "Go home." "You gave her my project," I said, my voice deadly calm. "I reassigned it," he corrected. "You are too emotional right now. You need rest." "She doesn't know how to structure the accounts," I said, pointing a trembling finger at Sofia. "She will get us all indicted within a month." Sofia hopped off the desk. She walked over to me, wearing Dante's suit jacket over her dress. It was a claim. A territorial pissing contest. "I have a degree in interior design," she said smugly, tossing her hair. "I think I can handle a few warehouses." "Interior design?" I laughed. It was a harsh, broken sound that scraped my throat. "We aren't picking out curtains, you idiot. We are washing blood money." Dante slammed his hand on the desk. "Enough!" he roared. He stood up and strode over to us. He placed himself between me and Sofia. Protecting her. "Sofia is the lead on the Port," he said, his tone final. "It is done. You are relieved of your duties, Elena. Go back to the estate and plan the Gala menu. That is what you are good at." He was stripping me of my rank. He was reducing me to a housewife. I looked at him, really looked at him. I didn't see a Capo. I saw a fool. "You think you can take my work and give it to her?" I asked softly. "I can do whatever I want," he said, towering over me. "Because I am your husband." "Fine," I said. I turned around. "Where are you going?" he asked. "To plan the Gala," I lied. I walked out. I didn't go to the estate. I went to my office down the hall. I packed a single box. Not with personal items. But with the encryption keys to the shell companies. If he wanted the project, he could have the concrete and the steel. But the money? The money was going with me.