Chapter 3

The next morning, I prepared breakfast for one.

Warm milk and a pressed sandwich on sourdough — simple, efficient, sufficient. The kitchen in the penthouse above the Falcone social club was silent except for the low hum of the espresso machine I did not bother to use. Pale light came through the reinforced windows and lay flat across the marble countertop where I set my single plate.

Dominic walked over to the dining table out of habit, already dressed in charcoal wool, cufflinks gleaming, the signet ring catching the overhead light as he reached for his usual place. He found his glass empty.

"Where's mine?" he asked.

I hesitated for a moment. "I thought you didn't like milk."

Dominic didn't respond. He was not happy. The ring on his right hand turned once, slow, deliberate, his thumb rolling it against the knuckle.

He didn't like milk, but in the past, I would always heat a glass for him and insist he drink it, regardless of his preferences. I did it because he had a weak stomach — years of late-night sit-downs, too much espresso, meals skipped in favor of counting-room business — and milk was good for it. Every morning for eight years I had set that glass in front of him like a small act of devotion he never once acknowledged.

Ignoring his stare, I glanced at the day's schedule pinned beneath a magnetized clip on the refrigerator, downed the milk in one gulp, put the dishes in the washer, and moved toward the door. My heels were quiet on the hallway runner, but my pulse wasn't. Behind me, Dominic seemed to say he would take me, but my footsteps were too loud, and I thought I must have misheard.

I rubbed the pad of my thumb once over the inside of my wrist, feeling the small flutter there. A habit I had never been able to break — checking that I was still here, still breathing, still upright when every instinct told me to sit down and weep.

Dominic and I had been together for eight years, working under the same roof of the Falcone organization, yet I took the crowded subway downtown every day. Eight years of keeping the Family's laundering fronts spotless, of making sure every dollar ran clean through the shell companies I had architected, and I still stood on a packed train with strangers who smelled of wet wool and cheap cologne while the Don rode in a black sedan with tinted glass.

Today, because of my injuries — the mauled arm still bandaged beneath my coat sleeve, the deeper wound no bandage could touch — I had arranged for one of the Family cars to collect me half an hour earlier.

Dominic, who was usually punctual, was late. He arrived with his personal courier, Adriana Bellini.

The printer in my office was broken, so I was in the common area of the social club's front office copying documents — shipping manifests dressed up as restaurant supply invoices, the kind of quiet labor that kept federal eyes from ever finding the real numbers underneath.

My colleagues' eyes darted back and forth between the three of us, eagerly waiting for some drama to unfold. Their gossiping hearts had been burning since Adriana arrived at the club months ago, bright-eyed and soft-voiced, a woman who wore fragility like couture.

It was no wonder. Everyone in the organization knew Dominic and I were together. Eight years. A shared penthouse above the club. A child we had been expecting — though that was past tense now, a fact I swallowed like ground glass every time I breathed.

But with Adriana's arrival, they were no longer sure.

Dominic was extremely fond of Adriana. The car that he had reluctantly let me ride in was now Adriana's dedicated ride. The man who was always focused on Family business and maintained a clear hierarchy inside these walls would now share a meal with Adriana at the back booth, take her out during working hours, and attend whatever show or gallery she wanted to see. Compared to me, Adriana seemed more like the Don's woman.

Everyone was waiting for the moment I would explode, but some restraint was ingrained in my bones. I could never make a scene where the men could see. In the past, countless private arguments with Dominic were always silenced by his words: "Don't act like a shrew."

Even after Dominic and Adriana disappeared into the Don's private office at the end of the corridor, the anticipated drama did not occur.

The silence was broken by whispers.

As I walked back to my own office with the documents, I overheard a male associate gossiping about us. He said, "I've told you. Ms. DeLuca is too strong-willed. What man likes that? Adriana is delicate and lovable."

His colleague noticed me and nudged him. Both of them bowed their heads, eyes dropping the way men in this life dropped their eyes when they realized they had spoken too freely.

I kept walking and returned to my office.

I strongly disagreed with being called "strong-willed." At work, my assertiveness reflected my abilities. I could manage these young associates and handle difficult clients — the restaurateurs who laundered without asking questions, the contractors who billed twice and kept quiet. In my personal life, if I were truly strong-willed, I wouldn't have let Dominic treat me this way.

I picked up the resignation letter on my desk and a plastic bag before heading to the Don's office.

Before I even knocked, I heard Adriana's soft sobs through the heavy door.

I pushed it open without hesitation and found Adriana leaning against Dominic, who was gently wiping her tears. A glass of wine sat on the desk beside her, untouched, and in the fraction of a second before they separated I saw it — the tip of one manicured fingernail pressed into the stem of the glass, pressed hard enough that I could almost hear the crystal sing.

They quickly separated, and even Dominic forgot to reprimand me for not knocking.

"Bianca, I…" Adriana stammered, unable to finish her sentence.

Dominic asked her to leave first, afraid I might upset her.

She bit her lip and moved toward the door, every step a performance of wounded grace.

As she passed me, I handed her the plastic bag.

I said, "Ms. Bellini, next time you go to someone else's house, don't be so careless."

Adriana blushed and stuttered, "Thank you, Bianca. I'll be more careful."

Then she rushed out of the office.

Next time?

It was a blatant provocation. Yet people called her pure and innocent. Men really didn't understand women.