Chapter 1: The Domestic Facade
“Can you move? You’re blocking the mirror.”
The words were spoken with a casual cruelty that had become the soundtrack of my life for the past six months. My husband, Kevin, nudged me aside with his hip, his eyes fixed firmly on his own reflection. I stumbled slightly, clutching our three-month-old son, Leo, closer to my chest.
I was standing in the hallway of our cramped, two-bedroom apartment, the air thick with the scent of boiled carrots and baby powder. I was wearing my “uniform”: an oversized t-shirt stained with spit-up, gray sweatpants that had lost their elasticity, and a messy bun that was slowly unraveling, strand by greasy strand.
Kevin, on the other hand, looked like he had just stepped out of a GQ editorial. He was dressed in a charcoal Italian wool suit, a Rolex Submariner glinting under the harsh hallway light, and his hair was gelled into a stiff, perfect wave. On the bed behind him lay a Louis Vuitton suitcase—an extravagant gift I had bought him for our anniversary last year by secretly skipping lunches and saving grocery money for six months.
“Are you really leaving, Kevin?” I asked. My voice was calm. Too calm, perhaps. It was the stillness of a deep ocean before a tsunami, but he was too self-absorbed to notice the warning signs.
“I have to, Sarah,” he sighed, the sound exaggerated and theatrical. He threw a silk tie into the bag with a flourish. “Look at you. Look at this life. It’s… suffocating. You smell like breast milk and onions. You talk about diaper brands and coupons for detergent. You’re boring.”
The word hung in the air like a slap. Boring.
“I’m raising our son,” I said, gently patting Leo’s back as he fussed. “And I cook your meals. I iron those shirts you’re packing.”
“That’s the problem!” Kevin snapped, spinning around to face me. “I don’t want a cook. I want a partner. Someone with ambition. Someone with class. My career is exploding, Sarah. I’m the VP of Marketing now. I need to be seen with someone who enhances my brand, not someone who looks like she gave up on life.”
He pulled out his latest iPhone—the one I couldn’t afford—and shoved the screen in my face. A photo of a woman filled the display. She was stunning, I had to admit. Legs up to her neck, pouting lips injected to perfection, holding a glass of champagne on the deck of a yacht.
“This is Bella,” Kevin said, puffing out his chest, looking for all the world like a rooster taking credit for the sunrise. “She’s a model. She has 500,000 followers on Instagram. She gets invited to parties you couldn’t even get into as a waitress. We’re moving into the SkyView Penthouse tonight. The lease is in my name, but… well, let’s just say I need a woman who fits the aesthetic.”
I looked at Bella. She looked like the type of woman who thought “manual labor” was the President of Mexico.
“Kevin,” I said, shifting Leo to my other shoulder to support his heavy head. “I’m going to ask you this once. Are you sure? Because once you walk out that door, there is no coming back. The bridge doesn’t just burn; it explodes. And the fallout… it lasts forever.”
Kevin laughed. It was a cruel, dismissive sound that grated against my nerves. “Is that a threat? From you? What are you going to do, Sarah? Hit me with a wet wipe? Write a bad review on Yelp? Go back to your coupon clipping. It’s all you’re good for.”
He zipped up the suitcase with a sharp zzzzzt. He didn’t even look at Leo. He didn’t kiss his son’s forehead. He didn’t say goodbye. He just grabbed the handle of the bag, walked past me, and whistled a cheerful tune as he opened the front door.
“Have a nice life, Sarah. Try to do something interesting for once.”
The door clicked shut.
I stood there for a long moment in the silence of the hallway. Outside, I heard the aggressive revving of his leased BMW engine, followed by the squeal of tires as he peeled away toward his new life.
Leo cooed softly, reaching up with a tiny, chubby hand to grab a lock of my hair. I looked down into his dark eyes—eyes that looked so much like my father’s.
“Well, little man,” I whispered to him, my voice dropping an octave, losing the soft, subservient lilt I had perfected over three years of marriage. “Daddy thinks Mommy is boring.”
I walked over to the bookshelf in the living room. Past the baby books, past the cookbooks, to the bottom shelf. I pulled out a dusty hardcover copy of The Art of War. Kevin had bought it to look smart on Zoom calls but had never cracked the spine.
I opened the book. The pages had been hollowed out years ago. Sitting in the cavity was a phone. Not my cracked smartphone with the baby pictures. A burner phone. An old, indestructible Nokia brick.
There was only one number saved in it.
I dialed. It rang once.
“Princess?”
The voice on the other end was like gravel crunching under heavy boots. It was a voice that had ordered hits, negotiated peace treaties between crime families, and silenced witnesses.
“Is everything okay?” the voice continued, sharp with sudden worry. “The signal from your bracelet hasn’t moved, but the pulse monitor spiked.”
“I’m fine, Daddy,” I said. The softness of the ‘boring housewife’ evaporated completely, replaced by the cold, steel tone of a woman born into the Moretti bloodline. “But I’m done playing house. The experiment is over.”
There was a pause on the line. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop. “He left?”
“He left,” I confirmed, walking to the window to watch the dust settle on the driveway. “He said I was boring. He said I lacked ‘class.’ He’s moving into the SkyView Penthouse with a woman named Bella.”
Silence stretched on the other end for five seconds. Then, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through the speaker—a sound that would have made a lesser person faint from terror.
“Boring,” my father mused, tasting the word. “That’s a new one. Nobody has called a Moretti boring since 1975. And we buried that guy in the foundation of the Verrazzano Bridge.”
“I want him to understand, Dad,” I said, my reflection in the window looking sharper, more dangerous. “I want him to see what ‘class’ really looks like. And I want him out of that penthouse. Tonight.”
“Consider it done, sweetheart. Get dressed. Uncle Tony is already on his way with the convoy. Five hundred boys. We’ll make it a family reunion.”
“Dad?”
“Yes, Princess?”
“Bring the big car.”
“For you? Only the best.”
I hung up the phone. The housewife was gone. The daughter of the city’s most feared mob boss had just clocked in.
Chapter 2: The Awakening
Thirty minutes. That’s all it took for the transformation.
I placed Leo in his travel crib, handing him his favorite plush toy. Then, I went to the back of the closet, behind the rows of sensible cardigans and nursing bras. I pulled on a false panel in the wall.
It slid open to reveal the life I had left behind.
Hanging there was a garment bag containing a dress I hadn’t worn since the night I vanished into suburbia. It was black silk, floor-length, with a slit up the thigh that screamed danger. Beside it sat a pair of diamond earrings—real diamonds, not the cubic zirconia Kevin had bought me for Christmas—and a pair of stiletto heels sharp enough to puncture a lung.
I stripped off the sweatpants and the stained t-shirt. I showered, scrubbing the scent of onions and formula from my skin, replacing it with the heavy, musky scent of Chanel No. 5. I let my hair down, brushing it until it fell in glossy, dark waves down my back. I painted my lips a deep, blood red.
When I looked in the mirror, Sarah the housewife was gone. Staring back at me was Serafina Moretti.
A heavy knock rattled the front door. Not the polite knock of a neighbor, but the authoritative thud of someone who owns the building.
I opened the door.
Standing there was Uncle Tony. He was six-foot-four, wide as a vending machine, with a scar running through his left eyebrow and a suit that cost more than Kevin’s annual salary. Behind him, filling the entire street, was a fleet of black SUVs. They were idling in perfect unison, a sea of polished chrome and tinted glass.
“Uncle Tony,” I smiled.
“Serafina,” he grinned, his face crinkling. He looked at me, then at the run-down apartment complex. He sneered at the peeling paint. “You lived like a rat for three years for this? For that guy?”
“I wanted a normal life, Tony. I wanted to know what it felt like to worry about bills instead of bullets.”
“And?”
“And it’s overrated,” I said, stepping aside. “Grab the baby’s go-bag. And the formula. Be careful with the diaper bag, it’s vintage.”
Two massive men in dark suits squeezed past Tony, moving with the gentleness of nuns as they collected Leo and his gear. Tony offered me his arm.
“Your father is already en route to the target,” Tony said as he escorted me down the walkway. Neighbors were peeking out from behind their curtains, their eyes wide with shock. They had seen me in sweatpants for years. Now, they were watching a queen ascend to her throne.
“Target status?” I asked, sliding into the back of the lead limousine—a customized armored Mercedes.
“Kevin and the girl are on the terrace,” Tony reported, checking an iPad. “They are drinking champagne. Cheap champagne. He posted a story on Instagram five minutes ago captioned ‘King of the World.’”
I laughed softly. “King of the World. How Titanic of him.”
The convoy began to move. We didn’t stop for red lights. We didn’t stop for stop signs. The city traffic parted for us like the Red Sea. This was the power of the Moretti name. We were the shadow government, the unseen hand that turned the wheels of the city.
I looked down at Leo, who was happily chewing on his pacifier in the car seat next to me.
“You know, Leo,” I murmured, stroking his cheek. “Your father wanted a woman with ambition. He wanted a brand.”
I looked out the window as the skyline grew closer, the towering spike of the SkyView building piercing the night.
“We’re going to give him the greatest rebranding of his life.”
The phone in the car buzzed. It was my father.
“We have secured the perimeter,” he said. “The doorman tried to stop us. He is now… taking a nap. We are holding the elevator for you.”
“I’m two minutes out, Dad.”
“Good. The helicopter is in position. Serafina?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember the rule.”
I smiled, my reflection sharp and cold in the glass. “I know, Dad. leave no crumbs.”
We pulled up to the curb. The entire block had been shut down. Men in suits lined the sidewalk, creating a human corridor of muscle and intimidation. I stepped out of the car, the night air cool against my skin.
I looked up at the penthouse balcony, fifty stories up. I could see two tiny figures laughing, oblivious to the storm gathering beneath their feet.
I adjusted Leo on my hip, checked my lipstick in the side mirror, and walked into the lobby.
It was time to crash the party.
Chapter 3: The Penthouse Invasion
Kevin and Bella were celebrating. The music was thumping—some generic house beat that Kevin thought made him seem young. They were standing on the balcony of the SkyView Penthouse, looking down at the glittering grid of the city.
“This is the life, babe!” Kevin shouted over the bass, popping the cork on a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Foam spilled over his hands, but he didn’t care. “No more crying baby. No more naggy wife talking about the price of eggs. Just us and the top of the world!”
Bella giggled, extending her arm to take a selfie with the skyline. “You’re so smart, Kev. Leaving that loser was the best move you ever made. She sounded so depressing.”
“Depressing? She was an anchor,” Kevin scoffed, taking a swig straight from the bottle. “A boring, heavy anchor. I’m a rocket ship, Bella. I need to fly.”
Suddenly, a strange sound cut through the rhythm of the music.
Thwup-thwup-thwup-thwup.
The wind on the balcony picked up violently. Bella’s hair extensions whipped around her face, blinding her. The champagne glasses rattled on the table.
“Is that… a helicopter?” Kevin squinted at the sky, shielding his eyes. “Why is it so low?”
A black helicopter, sleek and military-grade, rose up from below the balcony line like a leviathan surfacing from the deep. A blinding spotlight snapped on, pinning Kevin and Bella against the glass railing like bugs under a microscope.
Then came the cars.
Down on the street, far below, the traffic had stopped completely. A convoy of twenty black SUVs blocked all four lanes of the avenue. Blue and red lights from police cars were visible at the intersections, but they weren’t stopping the convoy—they were escorting it.
“What is going on?” Bella screamed, dropping her phone. It shattered on the tiles.
The elevator in the penthouse dinged.
Kevin spun around, his face pale. “I didn’t order room service.”
The brushed steel doors slid open with a smooth hiss.
It wasn’t room service.
Ten men walked in. They were enormous, their suits straining against chests the size of beer kegs. Tattoos crept up from their collars—vipers, daggers, crosses. They fanned out into the room silently, efficiently, unplugging the stereo system and taking positions by the windows and doors.
Then, an older man walked in. He leaned on an ebony cane topped with a silver wolf’s head. He wore a three-piece suit that whispered of old money and older violence. A scar ran down his left cheek, bisecting a beard that was perfectly trimmed.
Don Salvatore Moretti. The “Godfather” of the Eastern Seaboard. The man whose name was whispered in fear in boardrooms and back alleys alike.
Kevin’s knees knocked together audibly. He dropped the bottle of Dom Pérignon. It exploded on the marble floor, a puddle of expensive foam spreading toward his Italian loafers.
“M-Mr. Moretti?” Kevin squeaked. Everyone in the city knew the face. It was on the news every time a witness disappeared. “I… I think you have the wrong floor. I’m Kevin. I work in marketing. This is the SkyView.”
Don Moretti didn’t speak. He looked at Kevin with the same expression one might use when stepping in dog sickness. He stepped aside.
And then, I walked in.
I stepped out of the elevator, the heels of my stilettos clicking sharply on the marble. Click. Click. Click.
I wasn’t holding a burp cloth. I was holding the future of the Moretti crime family. Leo was dressed in a tiny, custom-made tuxedo, looking around the room with wide, curious eyes.
Two men flanked me, holding heavy bags of formula and diapers as if they were transporting the Crown Jewels.
Kevin stared. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes, sure that the stress had finally caused a stroke.
“Sarah?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “What… why are you… you look…”
“Expensive?” I finished for him.
I walked past him, the silk of my dress brushing against his leg. I ignored him completely and sat down on the white leather sofa. One of the large guards immediately placed a velvet cushion behind my back. Another placed a glass of water on a coaster before I could even ask.
“Comfortable, Princess?” Don Moretti asked, his voice gentle, a stark contrast to the terrifying silence of his men.
“Yes, Daddy,” I smiled, bouncing Leo on my knee.
“Daddy?” Kevin choked. He looked from me to the Don, his brain misfiring. “Your… your dad is a plumber! You told me he was a plumber in New Jersey! He fixes toilets!”
“He is in waste management, Kevin,” I corrected, examining my freshly manicured nails. “And sometimes, he manages plumbing. Specifically, when he needs to flush pieces of garbage down the drain.”
Bella, realizing the gravity of the situation, tried to sneak toward the front door, inching along the wall.
“Sit,” one of the guards barked. It wasn’t a request.
Bella collapsed onto a designer chair, shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
I looked at Kevin. The arrogance from this morning—the swagger, the cruelty—had evaporated. In its place was the primal, naked fear of a prey animal realizing it had willingly walked into the lion’s den.
“You said I was boring, Kevin,” I said, my voice echoing in the silent, luxurious room. “You said I didn’t fit your brand. You wanted ‘class.’ You wanted excitement.”
I gestured to the room full of armed mobsters, to the helicopter hovering outside, to the Godfather standing by the minibar pouring himself a scotch.
“So, I thought I’d introduce you to my brand,” I said coldly. “The Moretti Family Brand.”
“I… I didn’t know,” Kevin stammered, falling to his knees. He crawled toward me, hands clasped. “Sarah, baby, please. I was confused! Stress! It was work stress! I love you! I love Leo! We can fix this!”
“Don’t say his name,” Don Moretti growled.
The Don took a single step forward, and Kevin flinched so hard he fell backward onto his hands. “You left my daughter. You left my grandson without a backward glance. You insulted a Moretti.”
“I’m sorry!” Kevin wailed, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the snot running from his nose. “I’ll come back! I’ll be the best husband! I’ll fire Bella! I’ll do the dishes!”
“Hey!” Bella cried out, offended but too terrified to move.
I stood up, handing Leo to Uncle Tony. I walked over to Kevin, towering over him in my heels. He looked up at me with desperate, pathetic hope.
“You can’t come back, Kevin,” I said softly. I leaned down, my face inches from his. I could smell the fear on him. It smelled sour. “You see, I tried the normal life. I really did. I tried to be Sarah the housewife. I cooked your pasta. I washed your socks. I listened to your boring stories about marketing metrics. I loved it. It was peaceful.”
My eyes narrowed. “But you broke the one rule of the Witness Protection Program I put myself in: Don’t annoy the asset. You made me bored, Kevin. And when a Moretti girl gets bored… things get explosive.”
“Please,” Kevin sobbed, clutching the hem of my dress. “I’ll do anything. Anything!”
“I know you will,” I said, pulling my dress from his grip as if he were contagious. “Because you have no choice.”
I turned to my father. “Daddy, he likes the view from the penthouse. He thinks he’s a ‘rocket ship.’ Maybe he should see the view from the basement?”
“Excellent idea,” my father nodded, swirling his scotch. “Boys?”
Two guards grabbed Kevin by the arms. They lifted him effortlessly, his feet dangling off the ground. He screamed as they dragged him toward the elevator.
“Sarah! Sarah! Where are they taking me? Not the basement! Please!”
“To the sea,” I said, walking out onto the balcony to watch the helicopter pilot give me a thumbs up. “You said you needed space. The Atlantic Ocean has plenty of it. I hear the fishing trawlers are looking for bait boys. It’s hard work, Kevin. Lots of guts. Lots of smells. You’ll hate it.”
“Wait! What about the rent? The lease! My credit score!”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I called back over my shoulder, my silhouette framed by the city lights. “I bought the building ten minutes ago. Consider your eviction notice… immediate.”
The elevator doors closed on his screams.
I turned back to the room. Bella was frozen, clutching her fake Chanel bag.
“And you,” I said.
“I… I’m leaving!” she shrieked, jumping up. “I never met him! I don’t know who he is! I’m single! I’m a nun!”
“Good answer,” I smiled. “Run along now. And Bella? If I see you in this city again, or if I see your name on my Instagram feed… I might have to ask my father to give you a permanent makeover. And trust me, Uncle Tony is not a board-certified plastic surgeon.”
She ran. She ran so fast she left one of her heels behind, hobbling into the hallway and down the stairs, too scared to wait for the elevator.
The room was finally quiet.
I walked over to the balcony railing. My father came and stood beside me, putting a heavy, comforting arm around my shoulder. Uncle Tony brought Leo over. The baby was giggling, reaching for the bright lights of the helicopter.
“I missed you, Princess,” Dad said, his voice gruff with emotion. “Was it really that bad? Being normal?”
“It had its moments,” I admitted, leaning my head on his shoulder. “But honestly? The food was terrible. Kevin thought Olive Garden was authentic Italian.”
Dad shuddered visibly. “Barbarian. He deserves the boat.”
We looked down. The black SUVs were pulling away, carrying my ex-husband to a very long, very smelly new career in the commercial fishing industry.
“So,” Dad asked, lighting a cigar. “What now? You want the penthouse?”
I kissed Leo’s head, inhaling the scent of baby shampoo and gunpowder residue from the guards.
“No,” I said. “Too drafty. Let’s go to the estate. But Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I’ll keep managing the family business. Part-time. Being a mom is great, but…” I smirked, watching the city below me, a city that belonged to us.
“Diapers and diamonds,” I whispered. “It’s a good look.”
“It suits you,” he agreed.
I smiled. Kevin was right about one thing. I wasn’t a boring housewife. I was a Moretti. And we are anything but boring.
