My Mafia Husband’s Alibi Was Dinner

I was waiting for security to wave me out of the Moretti estate when a post caught my eye on a private message board where people connected to New York’s crime families traded gossip under fake names.

“Got a girl I want to bring home. Problem is, my wife handles collections for her father, so I never know when she’ll be back. How do I keep her from catching us?”

Growing up around mobsters had taught me that some men put more thought into hiding an affair than staying faithful.

Still, I kept reading.

One reply had hundreds of likes.

“Easy. My wife and I have two reserved spaces in our building’s private garage. Whenever I have company, I park diagonally across both. She gets home, can’t park, calls me to move. I go downstairs, and my girl takes the service elevator out. Six months. Wife doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Someone asked about the guards.

“They know who signs their checks.”

The replies were full of laughing emojis. Men called him a genius. One joked that he should be advising the bosses.

The original poster had liked his answer.

I stared at the screen, my fingers tightening around the phone.

My husband, Luca Moretti, ran one of the most feared crime families on the East Coast. I knew what men like him were capable of. I had grown up eating dinner across from men who ordered executions before dessert.

But somehow, the thought of a wife calling her husband, trusting him to come downstairs while his mistress slipped away, made my stomach turn.

I usually kept my mouth shut on those forums.

This time, I typed, “Every last one of you is a piece of shit.”

The guard finished checking the driveway and waved me out.

Twenty minutes later, I drove into the private garage beneath our Manhattan penthouse.

Luca’s black Maserati was parked diagonally across both our spaces.

I stopped with my headlights trained on his driver’s door.

Then I looked down at my phone, resting in the cup holder, exactly where I could reach it to call him.

My husband’s car.

Luca Moretti parked as carefully as he did everything else. He never left a tire over the line, even with a convoy waiting behind him.

Now it sat crooked across both our spaces.