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My mafia boss husband called to say he was spending the night drinking with old classmates. Less than an hour later, I discovered he had checked into one of Chicago’s most exclusive hotels with the woman he had always called **“like a little sister.”** I didn’t storm upstairs or give either of them a chance to explain. I waited until morning, took one photograph of them leaving together—and sent it to every person whose opinion mattered to Vincent Moretti.