Page 49 of The Mobster’s Mistress

"What?"

"You're Bridget Collins."

I stare at her, suddenly more frightened than I was a moment ago. Her nails are perfectly manicured, and an enormous gemstone ring glitters on her finger. Even bleeding on my kitchen floor, she looks like she belongs somewhere far more expensive than my apartment.

"How do you know my name?"

Her lips curve into something resembling a smile.

"Valentina."

"Valentina who?"

She draws a painful breath.

"Moretti."

The name hits me with such force that I forget to breathe.

Moretti.

I've spent the last three weeks falling asleep beside a man with that name. A man who kissed me goodbye less than an hour ago and told me to call when I got home.

"Are you related to Enzo?"

She gives a bitter little laugh that turns into a gasp of pain.

"You really don't know."

"Know what?"

"Lorenzo Moretti is my husband."

For a moment, I don't understand the words. I hear them, but they make absolutely no sense.

"No." I shake my head. "That's impossible."

"We've been married twelve years."

The dispatcher is asking whether the injured woman is still conscious, but I can barely hear her.

All I can think about is a gold ring.

A substantial band on Enzo's right ring finger. The one I noticed at the wedding and touched while we were lying together in Malibu. The one he told me had been part of his life for a long time.

Oh, God.

"You're lying," I whisper.

Valentina's eyes narrow. "Do you think you're the first little bitch he's fucked behind my back?"

I recoil, then immediately force myself to concentrate on the towel beneath my hands. The woman is bleeding, and whatever she's just told me, I cannot let her die.

"Stop talking. Please. You're hurt."

"His latest mistress," she says, watching me with cruel satisfaction. "That's all you are."

Mistress.