Chapter 1 - The Three Questions of the Underworld Queen
For seven long years, the heavy iron gates of the Moretti estate in Chicago had served as both a sanctuary and a gilded cage.
Every woman who had ever crossed that threshold believing she could claim the title of Mrs. Moretti faced the exact same ritual.
They stood across the mahogany table in the private study, facing a woman who had traded her youth for survival and power.
I am Vivian Moretti, the woman who stood beside the most dangerous man in the Midwest while empires were built on blood and silence.
Dominic Moretti ruled Chicago with an iron fist, his name whispered in hushed tones across shipping yards, underground clubs, and high-stakes gambling dens.
Men with guns and hardened criminals lowered their voices the moment Dominic walked into a room.
Yet, for all his terrifying dominance in the criminal underworld, his domestic life was governed by a bizarre and rigid tradition.
Whenever a new ambitious woman managed to bypass his security and reach his inner circle, Dominic brought her straight to me.
He watched with cold, analytical amusement as I tested their worthiness with three simple questions.
The first question tested whether they knew the cost of blood money that funded our luxurious lifestyle.
The second question asked what they would do when Dominic left them alone in the dark for days without a single word.
The third question demanded to know if they could look into his eyes and see the monster beneath the tailored Italian suits without flinching.
For seven years, every single woman who attempted the test failed miserably.
Some stammered out pathetic lies about unconditional love, while others exposed their naked greed within the first two minutes.
Not a single soul managed to answer even one question correctly.
I remained seated on my throne because no one was ever deemed worthy to replace me.
Until that crisp autumn afternoon when Dominic pushed open the study doors himself.
He did not walk in alone.
Trailing closely behind him was a young woman named Sienna Blake.
She radiated a dangerous combination of youthful arrogance and manufactured confidence.
Dominic stood quietly in the background, leaning against the dark wood paneling with a half-smoked cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
His dark eyes flicked between Sienna and me like a predator observing two wolves testing each other before a fight.
Sienna did not wait for an invitation to speak; she strode forward and planted her hands on the edge of the table.
Her gaze swept over my tailored blazer and my composed posture with open disdain.
“You should know when to step aside,” she announced, her voice dripping with unearned superiority.
“He doesn’t love you anymore.”
I rested my chin calmly on my hand, studying her like an entomologist examining a particularly foolish insect.
Instead of reacting to her provocation, I leaned forward and repeated the ancient ritual.
I asked her the exact same three questions I had asked every ambitious pretender before her.
Sienna did not hesitate for even a fraction of a second.
She rattled off her rehearsed, superficial answers with breathless haste.
Every single word she uttered was fundamentally, laughably wrong.
She understood nothing about Dominic, nothing about the syndicate, and nothing about the price of power.
My personal assistant stepped forward smoothly, her hand poised to escort the intruder off the premises.
I raised a single hand to halt her movement.
Slowly, deliberately, I slid my platinum wedding ring off my finger.
The cold metal scraped against the polished mahogany with a sound that seemed to echo through the massive room.
“Congratulations,” I said, my voice entirely devoid of emotion.
I pushed the gleaming ring across the table until it stopped right in front of her trembling fingers.
“Starting today, you can have my place.”
Sienna blinked in sheer disbelief, her arrogant facade cracking for a brief second.
Even Dominic’s composed expression shifted into a frown of genuine surprise.
“I got them right?” she asked, her voice pitching upward in confusion.
“No,” I replied evenly.
“All three were wrong.”
A nervous, triumphant smile quickly returned to her lips as she misinterpreted my surrender as weakness.
“Then why are you leaving?” she taunted, puffing out her chest.
Without breaking eye contact with Dominic, one of her hands drifted deliberately down toward her stomach.
That single gesture carried an unspoken message that cut through the silence like a jagged blade.
Months earlier, when another rumor had surfaced, Dominic had pulled me fiercely against his chest.
He had pressed his lips against my hair and whispered absolute assurances directly into my ear.
“There will only ever be one Mrs. Moretti. You,” he had murmured with absolute conviction.
“The others are mere entertainment.”
“I would never let one of them carry my child.”
I had believed every single syllable of his promise at the time.
Or perhaps I had simply needed to believe it to survive the suffocating reality of our marriage.
I stood up gracefully from my chair and reached for my wool coat draped over the back of the seat.
Dominic’s sharp, commanding voice sliced through the heavy air.
“Vivian,” he warned.
He crossed the expansive room in three long strides and caught my shoulder in a tight grip.
His calloused fingers moved beneath my chin, forcing my face upward to meet his intense gaze.
“The door is right there,” he said quietly, his tone dropping into a dangerous register.
“Walking out is easy.”
His eyes hardened into obsidian glass.
“Coming back won’t be.”
For seven long years, that exact warning would have frozen me in my tracks.
Because through every betrayal, every late-night lie, and every fleeting mistress, I had always returned.
Dominic had never once chased after me when I stormed out.
He had never needed to lift a finger.
He knew I loved him enough to eventually break my own pride and crawl back to his side.
But as I stood there in the quiet study, something inside my chest went permanently silent.
May you like
I gently reached up and removed his hand from my face with absolute indifference.
“I’ve thought about it,” I said softly.
