My Mafia Husband Used His Influence to Bury a Doctor's Report — But His Ex-Lover and My Hidden Ledger Were Waiting
While Vincent tightened his digital leash on Amelia, an entirely separate chain of events had been unfolding, unbeknownst to him. Giovanni Rossi, the astute and traditional Boss of the family, had always possessed a shrewd, almost instinctual sense for disloyalty. Vincent DeMarco’s rapid rise, his polished charm, and his increasingly lavish lifestyle had, over the past several months, stirred a quiet unease in Gio. He admired ambition, but he distrusted ostentation, especially when it seemed to outpace actual earnings.
Months ago, well before Amelia’s hospital visit, Gio had summoned Frankie “The Fixer” Salerno to his private study. The room was always dimly lit, smelling of old leather and expensive tobacco. Frankie, loyal to Gio above all others, had listened intently as the Boss laid out his subtle suspicions.
“Frankie,” Gio had said, his voice low, his eyes piercing through the faint haze of cigar smoke. “Vincent is doing well. Too well, perhaps. His businesses are flourishing, his charities are celebrated. But the numbers… they don’t quite add up to the lifestyle he’s living. Too much flash.” He had taken a long drag from his cigar, the tip glowing red. “I need you to look into it. Quietly. Discretely. Nothing official, nothing that raises alarms. Just… an audit. A deeper look at his books, his ventures. See if my gut feeling is correct.”
Frankie, ever pragmatic, had understood the unspoken implications. Gio wasn’t just questioning Vincent’s finances; he was questioning his loyalty. A man who skimmed from the family, even from seemingly legitimate operations, was a man who couldn’t be trusted. Frankie had taken up the task with his usual diligence, a methodical approach that had earned him Gio’s trust over the years. He had begun by meticulously reviewing the financial statements of Vincent’s various legitimate businesses, cross-referencing them with family accounts, digging into the intricacies of investment portfolios and charitable fund disbursements.
Over the past few months, Frankie had uncovered minor, almost negligible discrepancies. A slightly inflated expense report here, a suspiciously round figure there, an investment return that seemed a little too good to be true. He’d found small, unexplained cash movements, a few transactions that seemed to bypass standard family protocols. Nothing conclusive enough to act on, nothing that screamed “betrayal,” but enough to keep his suspicions simmering. It was like finding scattered puzzle pieces, each intriguing but without the full picture. The amounts were small enough to be dismissed as clerical errors or personal discretions, but collectively, they created a faint hum of unease.
Frankie’s findings were filed away in his memory, awaiting further development. He hadn’t shared them with anyone, not even his own closest confidantes, understanding the sensitive nature of his task. To accuse a rising capo like Vincent DeMarco without irrefutable proof would be dangerous, not just for Vincent, but for Frankie himself. Gio had explicitly told him to be patient, to observe, to wait for something more concrete.
Then came the incident with Amelia. Frankie had been tasked with keeping an eye on her, an unwelcome assignment that had only deepened his quiet doubts about Vincent. He observed Amelia’s subdued demeanor, her almost ghost-like presence in her own home, and he heard the whispers Vincent was carefully cultivating about her “instability.” But Frankie, a keen observer of human nature, saw something else. He saw fear in Amelia’s eyes, a quiet desperation that didn’t align with Vincent’s narrative of a “paranoid” wife.
He remembered seeing her walk through the garden one morning, her back straight, her jaw set, despite the air of quiet defeat that usually clung to her. There was a strength there, a resilience that contradicted Vincent’s claims of fragility. The narrative Vincent was spreading felt too manufactured, too perfect. Frankie had witnessed Vincent’s casual cruelties before, though never directed at Amelia. He had seen the way Vincent would dismiss subordinates with a flick of his wrist, or the chillingly calm manner in which he’d deliver bad news, entirely devoid of empathy. Frankie also knew Vincent’s ambition, a relentless drive that often bordered on ruthlessness.
When Vincent confiscated Amelia’s phone, telling Frankie it was “for her own good,” Frankie felt a prickle of unease. It wasn’t just about control; it felt punitive. The act itself was a petty cruelty, a deliberate removal of Amelia’s autonomy masked as protection. He saw Amelia’s face when Vincent took the phone, the flicker of despair in her eyes, a look he knew well from those trapped in difficult situations. He silently added this observation to his mental file on Vincent, the pieces of the puzzle slowly, inexorably, beginning to connect. He still had no definitive proof, but the subtle threads of Vincent’s deception, both financial and personal, were beginning to weave a disquieting tapestry in Frankie’s mind.
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