The Runaway Wife's Secret Heir

I stood alone at the center of my art gallery opening, clutching a glass of warm champagne, while the guests whispered behind their hands.

My husband, the Capo of the Chicago Outfit, wasn't there.

A breaking news alert on my phone explained why.

It was a high-definition photo of Dante shielding his mistress, Isabella, from the rain. He was touching her with a protective possessiveness he had never once shown me.

Then came his text:

"Isabella needed me. Go home."

That was the moment the cage door unlocked. I didn't go home to cry.