Chapter 1 - THE SECOND WOMAN IN THEIR HONEYMOON
At 11:18 on a stormy Thursday night, seven-month-pregnant Elena Caruso walked into her husband’s Manhattan penthouse office and found another woman standing behind his chair with both hands resting on his shoulders.
The room became silent before anyone said a word.
Rain streaked the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Empire State Building glowed beyond the glass, blurred by the storm. A half-finished glass of bourbon sat beside a crystal decanter on the black marble desk.
And directly in front of Elena’s husband lay two first-class tickets to Italy.
Rome to Positano.
Two passengers.
Neither ticket carried Elena’s name.
Her husband, Roman Caruso, slowly lowered the pen in his tattooed hand.
At thirty-eight, Roman controlled an empire that existed half in legitimate business and half in whispers. Restaurants, construction companies, hotels, private security firms—his family name opened doors throughout New York.
It also frightened people into closing them.
Elena had never feared him.
Not until tonight.
She stood near the desk wearing a white maternity dress beneath a cream blazer. One hand rested instinctively beneath her stomach.
Their unborn daughter moved.
Roman’s gaze dropped toward Elena’s belly.
“Elena.”
The woman behind him quickly removed her hands.
Her name was Camille DeLuca.
Twenty-nine.
Elegant.
Beautiful.
And wearing the diamond earrings Elena had seen on a credit-card statement three weeks earlier.
Camille stepped away from Roman.
“I should leave.”
“No.”
Elena’s voice surprised even herself.
Camille froze.
“You wanted to be here,” Elena continued quietly. “Stay.”
Roman stood.
“Elena, this isn’t what you think.”
She looked at him.
For thirteen years, Elena had watched Roman Caruso intimidate prosecutors, rival businessmen, union bosses, and men twice his size without raising his voice.
Tonight she watched him search desperately for words.
She almost laughed.
Instead, she opened her handbag.
Roman’s expression changed.
Elena pulled out an old photograph.
She placed it on the marble desk.
The picture had been taken eleven years earlier on the terrace of the Villa Serafina on the Amalfi Coast.
Roman was younger in the photograph.
Barefoot.
Smiling.
Elena was wearing his white shirt while he held her against him.
Their honeymoon.
The happiest week of their marriage.
Roman looked from the photograph to the airline tickets.
His face slowly hardened.
“Elena—”
“Villa Serafina?”
Camille looked uncomfortable.
Roman said nothing.
Elena’s eyes moved to another document.
A hotel confirmation.
Villa Serafina.
Belladonna Suite.
Seven nights.
The Belladonna Suite.
Their suite.
Elena touched the edge of the reservation with one finger.
“You couldn’t even pick another room?”
Roman stepped around the desk.
“Listen to me.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“I said no.”
She had rarely spoken to him that way.
Roman stopped.
Camille quietly picked up her purse.
Elena turned toward her.
“I said stay.”
Camille swallowed.
Elena looked at Roman again.
“How long?”
His jaw flexed.
“Elena, we should discuss this privately.”
“Why? Apparently my marriage hasn’t been private.”
“Elena.”
“How long?”
Silence.
Lightning flashed beyond the windows.
Finally Camille answered.
“Eight months.”
Roman turned sharply.
“Camille.”
Elena’s face drained of color.
Eight months.
Her hand moved automatically over her stomach.
She was seven months pregnant.
That meant Camille had been in Roman’s life before Elena had even seen the positive pregnancy test.
Before Roman had lifted her from the bathroom floor laughing.
Before he had kissed her stomach.
Before he had called his mother at six in the morning and announced that after years of trying, they were finally having a baby.
Elena whispered, “You were with her when we found out?”
Roman’s expression broke for half a second.
“That isn’t—”
“Answer me.”
He looked away.
That was the answer.
Pain tightened beneath Elena’s ribs.
She inhaled slowly.
Roman immediately noticed.
“Are you okay?”
He reached for her.
Elena stepped backward.
The movement was tiny.
But Roman reacted as if she had slapped him.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Elena, you’re pregnant.”
Her laugh was empty.
“I remember.”
Camille moved toward the door.
“This was a mistake.”
Elena looked at her.
“No. A mistake is taking the wrong subway.”
Camille went pale.
“This took eight months.”
“Elena,” Roman warned.
She turned on him.
“Don’t protect her from me.”
Roman became still.
Something changed in Elena’s voice.
For thirteen years, she had been the calm one.
The woman who made Roman’s mother laugh after chemotherapy.
The woman who remembered every birthday.
The woman who took his nephew to physical therapy after a football injury.
The woman who sat beside Roman’s father during the final thirty-six hours of his life because Roman had been handling a crisis downtown.
The woman who turned a feared family into something resembling a home.
Roman had mistaken kindness for permanence.
Elena picked up the two airline tickets.
Then she noticed something beneath them.
A cream envelope.
She pulled it free.
Roman moved immediately.
“Elena, leave that.”
Too late.
She opened it.
Inside was a printed itinerary.
Private yacht.
Couples massage.
Candlelit dinner at Ravello.
A photographer booked for sunset.
Elena stared at the page.
That last detail confused her.
“A photographer?”
Camille closed her eyes.
Roman said, “Enough.”
Elena looked between them.
“What was the photographer for?”
Nobody answered.
Elena turned to Camille.
Camille’s eyes filled.
Roman’s voice became hard.
“Camille.”
But Elena understood.
Her gaze moved toward Camille’s left hand.
No ring.
Yet.
“Oh.”
The word came out almost soundless.
Roman stepped closer.
“It wasn’t decided.”
Elena stared at him.
He had just made things worse.
Camille whispered, “You told me you were going to tell her before Italy.”
Roman slammed his palm against the desk.
“Stop talking.”
Camille flinched.
Elena did not.
Something inside her had already gone strangely quiet.
She carefully placed the itinerary back on the desk.
Then she picked up the honeymoon photograph.
Roman watched her thumb brush across the younger versions of themselves.
“Elena, come home with me. We’ll talk.”
She looked up.
“I am home.”
Roman said nothing.
“This is my office,” he finally said.
Elena’s expression changed.
Not anger.
Recognition.
Roman immediately realized his mistake.
“Elena, that isn’t what I meant.”
But she was already looking around the luxurious room.
His office.
His penthouse.
His cars.
His companies.
His empire.
Somewhere during thirteen years of marriage, Roman had begun believing that because his name was written on everything, everything belonged to him.
Including her.
Elena reached for the tickets again.
She placed them directly in front of Camille.
“Take her.”
Roman stared at her.
“What?”
Elena looked him straight in the eyes.
“Take her to Italy.”
“Elena—”
“Stay in our suite.”
Her voice trembled now, but she kept going.
“Drink the wine we drank. Sit on the balcony where you promised me that if you ever had a family, you’d protect it.”
Roman’s face tightened.
“Stop.”
“Take the photographs.”
“Elena.”
“Ask her whatever you planned to ask her.”
Roman’s composure finally cracked.
“I said stop.”
Elena moved closer.
“And when you look at that ocean, try to remember who sat beside you the first time.”
Neither Roman nor Camille spoke.
Elena turned toward the door.
Roman caught her wrist.
She stopped.
His grip was gentle.
Desperate.
“Don’t walk out like this.”
Elena looked down at his hand.
Roman released her immediately.
She looked at him one final time.
“You already walked out, Roman.”
Then she left.
Roman stood frozen.
The elevator doors closed behind his wife.
Camille whispered, “Go after her.”
Roman did not move.
His pride told him Elena would calm down.
That she would return.
That thirteen years could not disappear over one terrible night.
He had no idea Elena had already made a decision.
She was not going home.
Twenty minutes later, Roman finally called her.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
He called the Westchester house.
The housekeeper answered.
“Mr. Caruso?”
“Where is my wife?”
A pause.
“Mrs. Caruso came home ten minutes ago.”
Relief hit him.
Then the housekeeper added:
“She’s packing.”
Roman grabbed his coat.
“What?”
“She asked me to bring down the blue suitcases.”
Roman’s blood ran cold.
“Elena doesn’t carry anything. She’s seven months pregnant. Tell her to sit down. I’m coming.”
“Mr. Caruso…”
“What?”
“She told me not to stop her.”
Roman was already running toward the elevator.
He reached the estate forty-two minutes later.
The front doors were open.
Two suitcases stood beside Elena’s Range Rover.
Roman rushed inside.
His mother, Teresa Caruso, stood in the foyer wearing her nightgown beneath a coat.
Roman stopped.
“Ma?”
Teresa looked devastated.
Behind her stood Roman’s younger sister, Gia.
Gia had been crying.
Roman looked upstairs.
“Elena!”
No answer.
He started toward the staircase.
His mother stepped in front of him.
“No.”
Roman stared at her.
“Move.”
Teresa had never been intimidated by her son.
“You don’t order me around tonight.”
“Where’s Elena?”
“Gone.”
Roman froze.
“She can’t be gone.”
Gia whispered, “She left twenty minutes ago.”
Roman pulled out his phone.
Teresa knocked it from his hand.
The device struck the marble floor.
Roman stared at his mother.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Teresa’s voice shook.
“For thirteen years, that woman loved you when you gave her almost nothing except your name and your problems.”
Roman’s breathing changed.
“You don’t know what happened.”
Teresa laughed bitterly.
“Elena showed me the tickets.”
Roman went silent.
“And the hotel.”
His mother stepped closer.
“And the woman.”
Roman closed his eyes.
Teresa’s eyes filled with tears.
“She asked me to take care of you.”
Roman opened his eyes.
“What?”
“Before she left.”
His mother began crying.
“She was still worried about you.”
That hurt more than anger would have.
Roman looked toward the staircase.
The house felt different already.
Too quiet.
There were no prenatal vitamins beside Elena’s water glass.
Her shoes were gone from beneath the console.
The cream maternity coat she wore every morning was missing from the hook.
Roman suddenly understood.
Elena had not left to scare him.
She had left because she was finished.
He picked up his phone and called again.
This time she answered.
“Elena.”
Silence.
“Where are you?”
Her voice came softly through the speaker.
“Somewhere I can breathe.”
“Come home.”
“No.”
Two letters.
Roman had negotiated million-dollar deals more easily.
“Tell me where you are.”
“No.”
“Elena, you’re carrying my daughter.”
Her response arrived immediately.
“I’m carrying myself, too.”
Roman had no answer.
After a moment she said:
“Enjoy Italy.”
The line disconnected.
Roman stood in the foyer of the enormous house he had spent years building.
His mother walked away.
His sister followed her.
May you like
For the first time in Roman Caruso’s adult life, nobody remained in the room simply because he expected them to.
And upstairs, behind the closed door of the nursery, the unfinished crib waited beneath a hand-painted ceiling of stars.
