I froze in the supermarket lot as a hundred-dollar bill drifted to the ground. Marco—once my husband, now a stranger in a red sports car—smirked through designer shades before roaring away. A month ago, he was a cashier here. Now? He looked rich, smug, untouchable.
I wasn’t angry. I was stunned.
For years, I had carried us. Extra shifts, hospital nights, his education. Then he left—said he’d “outgrown” our life. I let him go, heart shattered.
But this transformation? It didn’t make sense.
I picked up the bill and started digging.
Javier, an old friend at the store, told me Marco had quit abruptly after the divorce. Then I saw Marco’s social media: luxury clubs, rooftop bars, endless wealth. One name kept appearing—Vincenzo DeLuca—a man whispered about, known for shady dealings.
I hesitated, then decided to see for myself.
I crashed a private party Vincenzo was hosting. The place oozed money and menace. And in the middle of it all—Marco. Laughing, flaunting. I watched him hand off a thick envelope and whisper deals.
He wasn’t just spending money. He was earning it.
