I Sold His Gifts To Leave My Mafia Husband Chapter 02
Bianca Conti first messaged me three months ago.
She was the Conti family’s representative in the dockside ceasefire negotiations, which meant she could get past the guards at Matteo’s apartment and ensure the silence of anyone who saw her.
That day, I had just sold a scarf when my phone buzzed.
A photo arrived from an unknown number.
In it, Matteo was in an apartment kitchen, searing a steak.
He was wearing a dark blue apron, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, the old scar on his wrist clearly visible.
I had picked out that apron for him in a little shop in Paris. A tiny daisy was stitched into the hem—for me.
Beneath the photo was a single line of text.
“Matteo made me dinner. He said he’s never done that for another woman.”
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then I replied:
“The right pocket has a loose thread. You should cut it off for him.”
Bianca never responded to that.
But from that day on, she sent me something every week.
Sometimes it was a video of Matteo making her breakfast.
Sometimes it was a photo of their linked hands as they left a dockside meeting.
Sometimes it was just a single sentence.
“Matteo’s taking me to St. Barts this weekend to discuss the next shipping route. Want to come?”
I stopped replying.
But every time a new message arrived, I sold another one of his gifts the next day.
The night I sold the thirty-ninth item, Bianca sent me an audio file.
Matteo’s voice was clear.
“She’s been too quiet lately. But don’t worry about it. Where can she go? She hasn’t worked in years, and the only family she has is a grandmother who’s losing her memory. Without Vitale protection, she won’t even make it out of Brooklyn.”
Bianca laughed softly.
“Then why won’t you just sign the papers and let her go?”
“Not yet. The dock ceasefire terms aren’t finalized. The safe house I put in her name after we got married—I need her to sign it back over to me first.”
“And after that?”
“Then she leaves with nothing. If she wants to take care of that old woman, she can pay for it herself.”
The recording ended with the clinking of glasses.
I sat on the balcony, a cup of cold tea in my hand.
I set it down and opened my tablet.
When Matteo had transferred the safe house to my name, the deed was unconditional. The only way he could get it back was if I signed it over. My lawyer, Rachel, had already confirmed the title for me, and I had begun separating our other shared assets.
He thought I was just a scorned wife having a tantrum, selling off his gifts.
What he didn’t know was that for the past six months, I had been studying the very rules of his world he never wanted me to understand.
Then my phone rang.
The caller ID showed an unfamiliar landline.
“Is this Daisy Vitale? This is the Sunnyside Care Center.”
My fingers froze over the screen.
“You have the wrong number. My grandmother isn’t there.”
Pearl lived at The Willows in Westchester. She had a private room, dedicated nurses, and a driver on call. It cost nine thousand dollars a month, paid through the Vitale family’s protected dependent account.
“Pearl Bellandi is here,” the caller said. “Your husband, Matteo Vitale, arranged the transfer three months ago.”
A chill washed over me.
“Three months ago? I’m her legal guardian. Why wasn’t I notified?”
The caller’s voice dropped.
“The men who came with Mr. Vitale showed Family authorization. He said he was taking over the expenses. We didn’t dare refuse.”
“How is she now?”
There was a two-second pause on the other end.
“That’s actually why I’m calling. Pearl has been very unstable these past few days. She gets up at night looking for someone. This afternoon, she pulled the IV out of her arm.”
“What IV? Is she sick?”
“She had a bout of pneumonia last month and was hospitalized for a few days. She never fully recovered after she came back.”
Grandma had pneumonia.
She had been in the hospital.
For three months.
And I knew nothing.
My nails dug into my palm, but I couldn’t feel the sting.
“How much is your monthly fee?”
“Fifteen hundred dollars.”
From nine thousand to fifteen hundred.
A difference of seventy-five hundred dollars a month. Over three months, that was twenty-two thousand, five hundred dollars.
The ruby necklace Bianca had flaunted last month was priced at twenty-two thousand, two hundred.
I stood up, my grip tightening on the phone.
“Send me the address. I’m coming to get her now.”
After hanging up, I rushed into the study.
The payment records were still on Matteo’s computer. He assumed women didn’t touch Family business, so he never cleared the access points I could see.
Three months ago, the payments to The Willows had stopped. Fifteen hundred a month was wired to Sunnyside, and the remaining seventy-five hundred was split into three payments that went to Bianca’s preferred jeweler and the management company for her apartment.
All three were disguised as additional care fees, each one authorized by Matteo.
I finally understood why he hadn’t used his own accounts.
Before the ceasefire took effect, any extra benefit given to a Conti family representative had to be approved by the boss and the adviser. He had hidden the money inside the protected dependent expenses to bypass internal oversight.
I copied every single transaction.
Matteo hadn’t just stolen my grandmother’s care funds.
He had turned the protection the Family promised into a private slush fund to impress Bianca.