2. Maria
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Maria
The Moretti family restaurant has been transformed into a wonderland of fairy lights and white tablecloths, and I hate every inch of it.
I spent weeks helping plan this party. The seating chart that took three days to finalize because Aunt Carmela can’t sit near Cousin Marco after the incident at last year’s Christmas dinner.
The playlist of Nonna’s favorite songs, carefully curated from conversations we’d had over coffee.
The menu I’d coordinated with the chef, making sure to include the lemon ricotta cake Nonna mentioned missing from her childhood.
Now I’m walking into my own work as a guest. Worse, as the scandal.
I can feel the whispers starting the moment I step through the door.
“That’s her-”
“Did you hear-”
“Three weeks ago, can you believe it-”
“I always thought something was off with her-”
I keep my spine straight. My chin up. I’m wearing red, a deliberate choice. Not the black of mourning, not the white of surrender. Red. The color of war.
If you want a show, I’ll give you one.
“Maria.” Rosa Moretti materializes at my elbow, Tommy’s mother, her face arranged into that careful blankness she uses when she’s pretending everything is fine. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“Nonna invited me. I wouldn’t miss her birthday.”
Rosa’s smile tightens. “That’s very... gracious of you.”
Gracious. Like I’m doing them a favor by showing up to be humiliated.
“Where should I sit?”
“There’s a place for you near the back. We thought... given the circumstances... you might prefer something quiet.”
The back. Out of sight. Where I won’t make anyone uncomfortable by existing.
“That sounds perfect,” I say, and I mean it. The back gives me a view of the whole room. Lets me watch without being watched.
I find my seat. Order sparkling water when the waiter comes by - he raises an eyebrow at that, Maria Moretti not drinking wine, but I just smile and say I’m pacing myself.
And I wait.
***
I see them before I’m ready.
Tommy and Giuliana. Together. Publicly. For the first time.
She’s glowing. Glowing. Her hand keeps drifting to her stomach, barely showing, but she’s making sure everyone notices anyway. She’s wearing another new dress, designer, probably paid for with money from the joint account Tommy and I still technically share.
He has his arm around her. Proprietary. Proud. Like she’s a prize he won.
Eight months. They’ve been hiding this for eight months. And now they’re parading it like a victory lap.
I force myself to breathe. To stay calm. To remember why I’m here.
Information. Observation. Ammunition.
Victor Moretti - Tommy’s father, the family patriarch - is holding court near the bar. Silver hair, sharp eyes, the kind of power that comes from decades of building an empire and crushing anyone who got in the way. He catches my eye across the room.
He smiles.
Not a kind smile. A knowing smile. The smile of a man who ordered his lawyers to draw up divorce papers three weeks ago and has been counting down to this moment.
He knew. They all knew. The whole family was in on it, and no one told me.
I tear my eyes away from Victor. Scan the rest of the room. Try to distract myself by cataloging the guests, the decorations, the-
That’s when I see him.
A man standing near the exit, apart from everyone else. Tattoos visible at his collar and wrists, dark ink against olive skin. Dark hair pushed back from a sharp jaw. He doesn’t fit here, too rough, too raw, too real for this room of polished surfaces and practiced smiles.
And he’s watching the scene with Tommy and Giuliana with an expression I recognize.
Fury.
Not surprise. Not scandal.
Fury. Like this is personal.
His eyes find mine across the room.
I don’t look away.
Neither does he.
Something passes between us, a spark of recognition, maybe. Two outsiders watching the same lie unfold.
And then, unbidden, a thought I have no business thinking:
He’s beautiful.
Not pretty. Not handsome in the polished way Tommy is handsome. But something rawer. More dangerous. The kind of face that belongs in shadows, in alleyways, in places where polite society doesn’t go.
Stop it. Your husband just left you for your sister. The last thing you need is to notice another man.
But I can’t stop noticing. The way he holds himself, coiled, controlled, like a predator waiting to strike. The way the tattoos crawl up his neck, disappearing into his collar, making me wonder how far they go. The way his dark eyes seem to see right through me.
What would it feel like to have those hands on me? Those eyes looking at me like I’m something worth wanting?
I shake the thought away. Hard. Force myself to focus on the room, the guests, anything except the stranger with the dangerous eyes and the fury that matches my own.
***
Dinner is served. Toasts are made. I pick at my food and try not to throw up - the morning sickness is brutal, and every smell is making it worse.
Nonna Donna sits at the head of the table, frail but sharp-eyed, surveying her kingdom. She’s always reminded me of a queen, the last of a dying breed, watching her empire crumble around her but too proud to admit it.
She hasn’t looked at me once since I arrived.
That hurts more than I want to admit.
And then Tommy stands up.
He clinks his glass. The room falls silent.
“I want to thank everyone for being here to celebrate Nonna’s eightieth birthday.” His voice is warm, charming, every inch the golden son. “Family means everything to us. And that’s why I want to share some news.”
My blood goes cold.
He wouldn’t. Not here. Not like this.
“As some of you know, Maria and I are... going through some changes.” He doesn’t look at me. Not once. “But I believe in honesty. In family. And I want you all to know-”
He reaches down. Takes Giuliana’s hand. Pulls her up to stand beside him.
“Giuliana and I are together. We’re in love. And we’re expecting a baby.”
The room explodes.
Gasps. Whispers. A roomful of eyes swiveling between me, Tommy, and my sister.
But I’m not watching them.
I’m watching Nonna.
Her eyes find mine across the table. And for one desperate moment, I hope - I pray - for sympathy. For kindness. For some acknowledgment that I’m the victim here.
Instead, her face twists into something ugly.
“You.” Her voice cuts through the chaos like a knife. “What did you do to drive him to this?”
The room goes silent.
Every eye in the place is on me now. Waiting. Watching.
“A man doesn’t leave a good wife,” Nonna continues. “Not a Moretti man. So what did you do, girl? What did you fail to give him?”
This isn’t the Nonna who used to slip me the last cannoli and call me the only sensible one at the table.
This is the matriarch, defending the Moretti name in front of the entire family.
And somewhere under the fury in her eyes is something that almost looks like shame, as if even she doesn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t move.
I can’t do anything except sit here while the woman I thought cared about me blames me - publicly, viciously - for my husband’s betrayal.
The pregnancy test is burning a hole in my pocket. Two pink lines. Proof that I didn’t fail to “give him” anything. Proof that I was trying, that I was succeeding, that I was building the future they all claim I couldn’t provide.
But I don’t pull it out. Don’t scream the truth in their faces.
Because I see Giuliana’s smile. Triumphant. Smug.
I won, that smile says. And everyone knows it.
I push back from the table. Stand up.
The room watches. Waits for me to cry. To scream. To give them the satisfaction of falling apart.
I don’t.
I simply turn and walk toward the exit. Head high. Back straight.
Don’t break. Don’t you dare break. Not here. Not in front of them.
I make it to the hallway before the first tear falls.
***
“I can help you destroy him.”
The voice comes from behind me. Low. Rough. Like gravel and smoke.
I turn.
It’s him. The stranger with the tattoos. The one who was watching Tommy with fury in his eyes.
Up close, he’s even more striking. Sharp jaw. Dark eyes that miss nothing. A face that looks like it was carved for brooding. And those tattoos - up close, I can see they’re intricate, detailed, telling stories I want to trace with my fingers.
Jesus Christ, Maria. Get a grip.
“Who are you?”
“Luca.” A pause. Something complicated flickers across his face. “Moretti.”
My stomach drops.
“You’re-”
“Tommy’s brother. The one they don’t talk about.” His mouth twists into something that’s not quite a smile. “And I’ve been waiting five years for someone with a reason to burn this family down.”
I stare at him. This stranger who shares blood with the man who destroyed me. This ghost from a scandal I only ever heard whispered about - something happened, years ago, the eldest son, we don’t mention him.
“Why would you help me?”
“Because five years ago, I tried to expose my father’s crimes.
Money laundering. Tax evasion. A worker who died because of negligence they covered up.
” His voice is flat. Controlled. “Tommy testified against me. Lied to the board. Said I fabricated everything. I lost my inheritance. My family. My name.”
“So this is revenge.”
“This is justice. There’s a difference.” He pulls a card from his pocket. “I’m a divorce attorney now. A good one - it’s amazing how motivated you get when your own family tries to screw you. And I know where all the bodies are buried.”
I look at the card. Simple. Professional.
LUCA MORETTI, ESQ.
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t. Not yet.” He tucks the card back into his pocket. “But I’m the only person in that family who’s ever told the truth about them. And I’m the only one who knows how to beat them.”
Behind us, I can hear the party continuing. Music. Laughter. The sounds of a family celebrating like they didn’t just destroy someone’s life in public.
I think about Nonna’s face. What did you do to drive him to this?
I think about Giuliana’s smile. I won.
I think about the two pink lines in my pocket, and the baby they don’t know about, and the future I’m going to have to build from the ashes of everything I thought I knew.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “10 a.m. Give me the address.”
Something shifts in his expression. Approval, maybe. Or recognition.
“Don’t tell anyone we talked. The Morettis have eyes everywhere.”
“I know. They drew up divorce papers three weeks before I found out.”
His jaw tightens. “Then you know what you’re dealing with.”
“I’m starting to.”
He turns to leave. And I shouldn’t - I really shouldn’t - but I can’t help watching him go. The way he moves, fluid and controlled. The breadth of his shoulders under that dark shirt. The tattoos disappearing into his collar, and the forbidden question of where else they might be hiding.
He’s Tommy’s brother. TOMMY’S brOTHER. What the hell is wrong with you?
But maybe that’s exactly why the thought feels so dangerous. So delicious. Because Tommy took everything from me - my marriage, my sister, my dignity.
What would it feel like to take something of his?
I shake the thought away. Hard. This isn’t about attraction. This is about survival.
But as I pull out my phone and block Tommy’s number, I can still feel Luca’s eyes on me.
And I can’t quite make myself wish I couldn’t.