[COMPLETED] My Mafia Husband Brought His Mistress to My Birthday—Then Looked Afraid When I Gave Her His Family Ring

Martin Cho's office was above a dry cleaner in the West Loop, an address so ordinary I nearly walked past it. The rooms inside were bright, neat, and crowded with boxes of old financial statements. I liked it immediately. Nothing about the place had been designed to impress me.

Martin greeted Sylvia and me, then turned his monitor so we could see the documents he had recovered from public filings and the records Sylvia was authorized to provide.

“We're looking for two things,” he said. “What was pledged, and who got paid while the property was being prepared for refinancing.”

He began with the South Branch terminals. My father's company had owned a minority interest in the land and warehouses. The terminals weren't glamorous. Trucks came and went, cargo changed hands, and hundreds of people depended on the place to work.

“Your father preferred a business that moved things,” Martin said, “to one that merely moved money.”

I smiled despite myself. That sounded like him.

According to the statements, the terminals had paid substantial management fees to a company called Lakefront Facilities. Martin clicked through its registration history until he reached the beneficial owner.

Castellano Capital.

“So Roman's company paid itself?” I asked.

“An affiliate charged the terminal operator. Related-party transactions can be legitimate. But the amounts need justification, and the owners need proper disclosure.”

The fees had risen sharply over three years. Yet maintenance expenses at the terminals had remained almost unchanged. Meanwhile, distributions to Moretti Freight had been reduced to nearly nothing.

“Roman told me the company couldn't afford to pay anything because the warehouses needed repairs.”

“Then we need to see where the repairs are,” Martin said.

Sylvia obtained the inspection reports that had accompanied the loan application. They described recently upgraded loading equipment and major structural improvements. The photographs looked convincing until Martin noticed that several were dated before the management fees had increased.

“Could they be old photographs?” I asked.

“Certainly. That isn't proof of misconduct. But if the lender is being told these fees funded new work, we should ask for invoices.”

I liked that he never used the word fraud before he could support it. Roman had always made certainty sound like authority. Martin made caution sound like competence.

By afternoon we had a list of missing invoices, inconsistent dates, and money flowing between companies Roman controlled. Sylvia prepared a second preservation demand and asked for a temporary restriction on further pledges of my interest.

Then Roman called me from an unfamiliar number.

I answered only because Sylvia was sitting beside me, recording the time and taking notes.

“Evelyn.”

His voice was the same as it had been beneath the chandeliers. Soft enough to seem calm. Certain enough to sound like an order.

“Where are you?”

“Somewhere I chose to be.”

“You made your point last night.”

“You made yours first.”

“Dante Vale is using you. He doesn't care what happens to you afterward.”

“Then I won't let him make my decisions.”

Roman went quiet. In the four years of our marriage, silence from him had usually been punishment. This time, I waited without trying to fill it.

“Come home,” he said. “We'll discuss the business like adults.”

“Send my attorney the documents.”

“Those files would mean nothing to you.”

“They carry my name.”

“Evelyn—”

“You put my signature on a document I never saw.”

The pause was longer this time.

“You have no idea how many people rely on that financing.”

“Then you should have asked me honestly.”

He exhaled through his nose.

“If the deal collapses, workers will suffer. You may enjoy making me uncomfortable, but they won't enjoy unemployment.”

It was the first argument that truly frightened me. Not because I believed I was responsible for Roman's decisions, but because the workers were real. I remembered my father greeting the night-shift crews by name. He had believed employees were people, not collateral damage in a family argument.

“I don't want the terminals destroyed,” I said. “I want to know what's happening to them.”

“Then stop listening to my enemies.”

“Give me something better to listen to.”

He ended the call.

I looked at Sylvia. She was still holding her pen.

“He didn't deny the certificate,” I said.

“No. But an omission isn't a confession.”

We returned to the figures. Martin found that one of the largest facility payments had been made to a newly created vendor with no apparent employees and no operating history. Its address matched a suite in a building used by Castellano Capital.

“Someone will need to explain that payment,” he said.

I was still considering how Roman had invoked the workers when Sylvia's phone rang. A representative of the terminal employees' committee had returned her call. They had written repeatedly about delayed equipment repairs and missed safety inspections, despite reports that major upgrades had been completed.

Sylvia listened carefully, then asked whether they would be willing to meet privately. The representative agreed.

When she hung up, I felt the shape of the problem changing. Roman's affairs had injured me personally. The business he claimed to manage for my benefit might have injured people who had never had a choice about him.

That evening, I sent one message to Roman.

I am not returning home. All business communication goes through Sylvia Quinn.

Then I turned off my phone.

I expected the quiet to hurt. Instead, it gave me enough room to think.

The next morning, Sylvia called with the lender's response. They were willing to hold the closing while reviewing the disputed certificate, but only until an independent review could determine whether my approval was genuine.