Chapter 2

Dante doesn't come home till 3 a.m.

I'm curled up on the couch. He loosens his tie. Hand stops mid-air when he sees me.

"Baby. Why are you waiting up again?"

He scoops me up like I don't weigh 250 pounds. Carries me back to bed. Sets me down.

"You're gonna wear yourself out, sweetheart. Kills me to see this."

I press my face into his chest.

And I smell it. Citrus. Sharp. Sweet. Orange blossom.

Last year he started smelling like this. Told me the whole family switched cologne. Every soldier on the payroll. I believed him.

Of course I did.

Now I get it. It's *her*.

My mouth opens before my brain catches up.

"Dante. I hate citrus. Switch it back. Roses. Like before."

His hand pauses on my hair. Just a beat.

Then he laughs. Soft. Flicks my nose.

"Baby. Come on. Whole family wears it. Can't turn the ship around over one bottle." His thumb drags down my cheek. Down to my chin. Tips it up. "Be a good girl for me. Let it go."

I see it as he leans in. Red smear. Right on his collar.

That's not an accident. She wants me to see it.

I turn my head. Gag.

Dante rubs my back. Face full of concern. Oscar-worthy.

"Morning sickness again? What'd Dr. Ellis say at the checkup?"

I wipe my cheeks. Voice flat. "She said I'm tired. Told me to rest."

He opens his mouth. Phone buzzes.

His hand drops off my back. Looks at the screen.

Corner of his mouth ticks up.

I watch him. Say nothing.

He doesn't ask about the checkup again all night.

---

Next morning. Ten minutes after his SUV rolls out the gate, I get in my car.

I drive out to Montauk. The cliffside estate. The Cavallo compound.

There's a white Porsche parked in my spot. Right next to Dante's armored SUV.

A girl climbs out. Young. Cute. Barely ninety pounds. Swipes into the private elevator like she's done it a hundred times.

My knuckles go white on the wheel.

I walk into the marble foyer. My painting used to hang on that wall. The huge one. The one I made after the worst year of my life.

Gone. In its place, some pretty little watercolor. Signed *Bianca Rossi*.

I keep walking. Past the receptionist. Past his consigliere. Straight to the office he gave me. The one right next to his.

"My wife doesn't need to work," he'd whispered once, holding me. "But the Don's wife needs a seat at the table. Always."

The plaque now reads:

BIANCA ROSSI — EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT TO THE PRINCIPAL

Office is empty. But the connecting door — the one that opens straight into Dante's — has sounds coming through it.

Wet ones.

I walk toward it. One foot. Then the other.

I think about the red smear on his collar. The way his mouth ticked at that text.

I think about the nor'easter the night he told me he loved me. Both of us soaked. Both of us laughing and crying in his crappy walk-up in Newark.

I think about us in bed with a baby name book, circling Aurora together. So she has light. So she has dawn.

I think about Rory's voice. I didn't make it, Mommy.

Sounds get louder.

Yesterday I ran.

Today?

I turn the handle.

Bianca shrieks. Sharp. Staged. She still doesn't get off his lap.

Then she looks at me.

She glances down at her own slim body, then at mine. A fake little gasp. Almost a smile.

Dante shoves her aside. Coming at me. Shirt half open. Lipstick smeared across his mouth.

My voice shakes. Tears blur my eyes.

"We're done."

I turn and walk away.

---

I race down the stairs and out the front doors, straight to where the cars are parked.

The cliff. The Atlantic. Wind ripping the hair off my face.

Waves smash the rocks below. White. Loud. Over and over.

"SIENNA!"

He grabs my elbow. Spins me around.

I rip my arm back. Stumble to the edge. The stone wall hits the backs of my thighs. Below me, a hundred feet of nothing.

"Baby. Careful. *Careful.*"

His voice drops soft. Dangerous. He steps closer. Slow. Like I'm a spooked animal.

"Come here."

"Don't."

"Sienna—"

"*Don't.*"

Another wave slams the rocks. I taste salt on my mouth.

His eyes flick to my belly. Back to my face. And something in him shifts. That look. Soft. Cruel. Soft. Cruel.

"You drove yourself here?" he says. Quiet. "You're eight weeks pregnant. You could've cracked your head open. You that stupid?"

"Don't."

"Baby, listen—"

"I said don't."

He takes one more step. Right into my space. Hand comes up. Cups my jaw.

Thumb drags across my bottom lip. Slow.

"You're not gonna do anything crazy. Right?" His voice is velvet. "You wouldn't hurt my baby."

The wind cuts under my dress. I'm shaking.

I swallow the copper taste in my mouth.

"Dante. We're done."

---