The Mistress's Name On His Heart

On my wedding night, while unbuttoning my new husband's shirt, I found a fresh tattoo over his heart. A bold, jagged letter 'C'. It stood for Caren—my best friend, the girl I had raised from the servant's quarters like a sister. Jameson was the Prince of Philadelphia, and our marriage was a blood pact between mafia families. But looking at that ink, I realized he had already signed a different contract with the help. The betrayal didn't stop at infidelity. Weeks later, Caren crashed a family dinner with a "peace offering"—a cake laced with peanuts. She knew I was deathly allergic. As my throat closed up and I clawed at Jameson for the EpiPen in my purse, he didn't move. He stood there and watched me turn blue. For three eternal seconds, he hesitated, weighing the life of his mistress against the life of his wife. He wanted me to die so he wouldn't have to expose her. But I didn't die. I woke up in the hospital with the Dons of both families standing over me, waiting for an explanation. Jameson begged me with his eyes to keep his secret, whispering that he loved me and our unborn heir. I didn't cry. I simply connected my phone to the speaker and played the recording of him mocking me with Caren. Then, I looked at the man who had hesitated to save my life. "There is no heir, Jameson," I said, my voice cold as ice. "I removed it. I will not incubate the legacy of a traitor." Chapter 1 Lana POV My fingers were trembling as I worked on unbuttoning my new husband's dress shirt on our wedding night, trying to ignore the sharp reek of expensive scotch clinging to his skin, when I found the initial of my best friend tattooed exactly where his heart should be. It was a fresh mark. The skin was still angry, inflamed, and red around the jagged black ink. A bold, cursive C. My hands froze against the white cotton of his shirt. Jameson Cavallaro was the Prince of Philadelphia. I was Lana Vitiello, the Princess of Chicago. Our marriage was supposed to end a decade of bloodshed between our families. It was a contract written in ink and sealed in blood. But looking at his chest, I realized he had already signed a different contract. Jameson groaned, his head lolling back against the velvet headboard of the penthouse suite. He was completely wasted. He was the most dangerous man in the city, a Capo who had killed for less than a wrong look, yet here he was, sloppy and vulnerable. My phone buzzed sharply on the bedside table. I picked it up. The screen was blindingly bright in the dim room. It was a text from Caren. Caren, who had grown up in the servant's quarters of my father's estate. Caren, who I had fed, clothed, and treated like a sister. Caren, who was currently back in Chicago, supposedly nursing a migraine. Make him honey water, Lana. It helps with the hangover. Be a good wife. Love you. The sheer audacity made my stomach turn. I looked from the phone to the tattoo. The C on his chest. The text on my phone. It wasn't a coincidence. In our world, a tattoo is a claim. It means ownership. You brand cattle, and you brand soldiers. Jameson had branded himself. He didn't belong to me. He didn't belong to the Vitiello-Cavallaro alliance. He belonged to the help. Jameson shifted, his eyes cracking open. They were hazy, unfocused. He reached out, his large hand gripping my wrist. His grip was bruising, a stark reminder of the violence that lived inside him. He pulled me down. I stiffened, smelling the alcohol and the faint, cloying scent of vanilla perfume on his collar. Caren's perfume. "Caren," he whispered. The name hung in the air between us like a guillotine blade. He closed his eyes again, smiling a soft, crooked smile I had never seen directed at me. "My lucky charm," he mumbled, and then he passed out cold. I stood up. My legs felt weak, but my mind was sharpening into focus. It was the Vitiello blood waking up. I walked to the bathroom and poured a glass of water. I deliberately did not add honey. I walked back to the bed and looked at the man who was supposed to be my future. He had violated the Omertà. He had brought an outsider into our bed. I took a photo of his chest with my phone. The flash was bright, but he didn't stir. I sat in the armchair across the room and watched him sleep. I didn't cry. Tears were for women who had hope. I had evidence.