I forced myself to look at the undeniable evidence of Dante's betrayal. The woman in the photos was young and beautiful, her ponytail bouncing with life. Cara Valente. I recognized the name from the fringes. The Valentes were nothing, a minor family with no territory, no real standing. The kind of people who survived by attaching themselves to bigger names.
There were pictures of her and Dante.
He was rowing on a lake, playing in the snow, and tucking a maple leaf into her hair. It was as though each season, spring, summer, fall, and winter, was captured in their little love story. A life built in parallel to mine. A second household funded by the Family's money, hidden behind the code of silence that was supposed to protect us all.
Taking a deep breath, I shakily opened one of the videos. In it, Dante stood by the ocean, the wind pulling at his open collar, and tenderly called her "My Carina."
She softly asked, "Do you love me?"
This was my husband of seven years, the father of the baby growing inside me, a Capo in the Moretti crime family, a man who gave orders that other men obeyed without question, replying with a warmth I hadn't seen in years.
"I'll always love you, Cara."