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.

Lana POV

The morning sun assaulted the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Cavallaro penthouse. It offered no warmth; it felt only exposing, stripping away the shadows I had been hiding in.

Jameson jolted awake to the shrill sound of a ringtone.

It wasn't a standard trill. It was a specific, cheerful melody-one I recognized instantly because I had heard that exact chime on Caren's phone a thousand times.

He moved faster than a hungover man should, scrambling for the burner phone he thought I didn't know existed.

He answered it before his eyes were even fully open.

"Yeah?" His voice was rough, laced with a panic that had nothing to do with business.

I sat at the vanity, methodically brushing my hair, watching him through the reflection of the mirror. I had been awake for hours, staring at the evidence I'd already captured on my phone.

He softened visibly. His shoulders dropped, the tension bleeding out of him. He listened for a moment, then whispered, "I know. I know, baby. I'll fix it."

He hung up and turned to me. The shift was instantaneous. The tenderness evaporated, replaced by the cold, arrogant mask of the Philadelphia heir.

"Who was that?" I asked, my voice deadly steady.

"Business," he lied effortlessly, swinging his legs out of bed. "An issue with a shipment in Jersey. Don't worry your pretty head about it."

He stood and stretched, his body a map of beautiful, terrifying violence. Muscles carved for brutality, scars that whispered of turf wars...

And there, stark against his pectoral muscle, was that fresh, black C.

He walked toward the bathroom, ignoring the brand on his chest as if ignoring it would make it disappear. As if he hadn't carved his infidelity into his own skin.

"Jameson," I said.

He stopped, his hand gripping the doorframe. "What, Lana? I have a headache."

"You have ink on your chest."

He froze. The muscles in his back coiled tight.

Slowly, he turned around. He looked down at himself, feigning surprise, but I caught the flash of genuine fear in his eyes.

If my father-the Don of Chicago-saw that tattoo, Jameson would be a corpse before sunset. The alliance would dissolve in blood. Philadelphia would burn.

"It's nothing," he said, his voice tight. "A drunken mistake from the bachelor party. Some stripper's initial. It means nothing."

"A stripper named Caren?" I asked.

The color drained from his face.

He took a step toward me-a classic intimidation tactic. He was used to people cowering before him.

"You're crazy," he spat. "You're imagining things. Caren is your friend. She's a nobody."

"She's somebody to you," I countered. "Enough to risk a war."

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. "You say a word to your father, Lana, and you'll regret it. This is my city. You are my wife. You do as I say."

"Remove it," I commanded.

He blinked. "What?"

"Remove the tattoo. Today. Or I send the photo to Chicago."

He stared at me, searching for the submissive girl he thought he married. He didn't find her.

"Fine," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "I'll get it covered. But don't you ever threaten me again."

He stormed into the shower, slamming the door behind him.

My phone buzzed against the marble vanity. Another text from Caren.

Hope the honey water worked! Is he awake? I'm worried about him.

I looked at the bathroom door, listening to the water running.

I didn't reply. I was done playing sister.

Lana POV

The tattoo parlor was tucked away in South Philly, a grimy establishment that smelled of antiseptic and stale smoke.

It was raining hard outside, a gray sheet of water that matched the suffocating tension inside the room.

Jameson sat in the worn leather chair, shirtless. The artist was setting up the gun. The high-pitched buzz of the needle was the only sound in the room, grating against the silence.

I stood by the door, arms crossed over my chest. I wasn't leaving until I saw that letter 'C' disappear under black ink.

Jameson's phone rang.

He looked at it. He didn't pick up.

It rang again. And again.

"Answer it," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "It might be 'business'."

He glared at me before sliding his finger across the screen.

"What?" he snapped.

Then his face went ghostly white.

"Where? Which hospital? I'm coming."

He hung up and bolted out of the chair, grabbing his shirt from the counter.

"We're leaving," he said.

"No," I said, stepping in to block the doorway. "You sit down and you cover that mark."

"Move, Lana," he growled. "Caren was in a car accident. She's in the ER."

"And?" I asked, arching a brow. "She's in Chicago. You're in Philadelphia. What are you going to do, fly there and hold her hand?"

"She's here," he said, slipping up. "She came to visit... family."

Lies. She had no family here. She was here for him.

"If you walk out that door," I said, my voice shaking with suppressed rage, "you are choosing her. You are choosing to insult me and my family."

"She could be dying!" he shouted.

"She's a rat," I said coldly. "Let her die."

Jameson looked at me with pure hatred. It was the first honest look he had given me in years.

"Get out of my way."

He shoved past me, his shoulder colliding hard with mine. He didn't care about the code. He didn't care about the marriage.

I followed him out to the sidewalk. The rain soaked my dress instantly, plastering the fabric to my skin.

"Jameson!" I screamed over the crash of thunder. "Look at your chest! You are branded like cattle! If you go to her, don't come back."

He opened the door of his black SUV. He looked back at me, rain dripping from his nose.

He looked at the tattoo on his chest, then at me.

He got in the car.

The engine roared to life, and he sped away, tires screeching on the wet asphalt.

He left his wife standing in the rain for his mistress.

I stood there until I was shivering. My phone pinged.

It was a picture message from Caren.

She was in a hospital bed, a small bandage on her forehead. She looked fine. But it was the hand holding hers that mattered.

Jameson's hand. I recognized the heavy watch. I recognized the rings.

He's so worried about me, the caption read. Thank God for friends.

I deleted the message. I didn't need it. I had seen enough.

I hailed a cab. I wasn't going to the hotel. I was going to the estate.

I had work to do.