Chapter 2

The bathroom door swung open and Dominic stepped out in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low around his hips. Water traced the lines of his torso — the same body that had put three men in the ground last Tuesday without breaking a sweat.

I shoved Enzo's folder into my bag before he could see it.

"Working on something?" He rubbed a second towel through his dark hair, not really looking at me.-

"Inventory for the next shipment." I pulled the zipper shut, keeping my tone flat.

He didn't press. Just kept drying off, tossing the towel over a chair with the casual ease of a man who'd never had to clean up after himself. "You've been running yourself into the ground lately. Maybe step back from ops for a while. I pull in enough for both of us."

I stared at him. Five years, and this man had never once understood what I was.

He knew I'd turned down my own territory three times — for him. He knew the work was the only thing that made me feel alive. And still he said things like that, like I was some kept woman who'd be satisfied with a Black Card and a view of Central Park.

"Maybe." The word tasted like rust on my tongue.

I looked away, forcing myself to breathe.

Fourteen more days. That's all. Fourteen days and I'd be out of New York, out of his orbit, out of this half-life where I mattered only when it was convenient.

In the bedroom, I'd barely pulled the sheets over myself when his arm coiled around me from behind.

His body was still damp and warm from the shower, that familiar cedar-and-smoke scent settling over me as his hand slipped beneath the silk of my camisole.

I seized his wrist. "Don't."

Behind my eyelids — Valentina's Instagram. Those red nails curled possessively around his forearm at some restaurant I'd never been invited to.

He went still. "What's wrong?"

I turned away from him, pulling the duvet higher. "Headache."

Silence. Then he shifted closer, pressing his lips against my hair, his palm settling warm and heavy over my stomach. "This better?"

In the dark, I squeezed my eyes shut. Tears built pressure behind them like water against a dam. His gentleness felt so real. But so had the lies.

If I actually meant something to him, why was he still tangled up with the woman he swore was ancient history?

His phone lit up on the nightstand. I glanced over before I could stop myself.

Valentina: "Remember that thing on your bucket list? The speakeasy on Mulberry Street — the one with the jazz trio. I'm here. Come find me ❤️"

My chest caved in.

Last weekend, Dominic had promised to take me there. I'd even made a reservation under a fake name — because that's what you do when your own boyfriend can't be seen with you in public.

So the ex didn't just get the gifts first. She got our plans, too.

Dominic saw the message. He was out of bed in seconds, already reaching for his clothes. "Something came up at one of the clubs. I need to handle it."

I watched him button the midnight-blue shirt I'd bought him for his birthday. Heard my own voice, strange and distant: "Take me to Mulberry Street. Right now."

His fingers stalled on the cuff for half a beat. "Next week. Things are too hot right now. Next week, I promise."

He pocketed his phone, grabbed his coat, and was gone.

The door latched shut. In the silence, I whispered to no one: "How much longer am I supposed to wait?"

It hadn't always been this way. Last winter I'd mentioned offhand that I'd never seen snow fall over the Brooklyn Bridge at night. He'd had his driver downstairs in fifteen minutes, wrapped me in his coat, and stood with me in the freezing wind until my cheeks went numb — laughing like a man with nothing else in the world to do.

Now? One text from her and I stopped existing.

I drifted to the window and watched his black SUV slide into traffic, taillights swallowed by the city. Then I turned back to the living room.

The photo wall.

Five years of memories — I'd chosen a hundred shots and pinned them in neat rows across the exposed brick. Our own private museum.

The first: the night we closed the Castellano deal, standing on the warehouse roof at dawn, his arm thrown over my shoulder, both of us grinning like idiots who didn't know they were covered in someone else's blood.

The second: Tokyo, that week he took me overseas under the pretense of a business trip. Cherry blossoms caught in my hair. His mouth on mine beneath the tower.

The third: Reykjavik. Northern lights. He'd draped his jacket over me and stood shivering in his shirtsleeves, lips nearly blue, refusing to admit he was cold.

The fourth: New Year's in Vegas. Confetti in our champagne. His forehead pressed against mine like we were the only two people left on earth.

Every frame held a story I thought I'd carry forever.

When he first saw the wall, he'd pulled me against him and murmured: "A hundred pictures. A hundred years. That's the deal."

Turns out the deal expired long before the century was up.

I reached for the first photo and pulled. The tape tore. I moved to the next, and the next, peeling them away until the wall was bare and my hands were trembling.

The pin holes left behind dotted the brick like buckshot — fitting, really. Our relationship had always been full of holes. I'd just refused to see them.

After the last frame came down, I checked my phone. Valentina had posted again.

Some people remember every promise you ever whispered ? #MulberryStreet #OldSchool #HeKnows

Center of the photo grid — two hands intertwined on a candlelit table. I knew those scarred knuckles. I knew that watch. I'd given him that watch.

My lungs forgot how to work.

Before I could close the app, a notification dropped down. WhatsApp. From Valentina. A voice note.

I stared at the play button for a long time. Then, like someone watching their own hand from very far away, I pressed it.

"Dominic — slower — it hurts..."

Her moans. His breathing. Low and rough and unmistakable.

The phone hit the marble floor.

I sat on the couch watching the screen fade to black. So after the speakeasy, there'd been a second act.

Something inside me snapped clean.

I went to the closet and ripped through his side of the wardrobe — pulling out every gift I'd ever given him. The cashmere scarf I'd had made in Milan. The monogrammed cufflinks. The vintage Patek Philippe I'd hunted for six months.

"I'll keep everything you give me, Sera. Always."

That's what he'd say every time, pressing his lips to my forehead like it was a sacrament.

Now it all felt like a joke someone forgot to laugh at.

I stuffed it into garbage bags — the gifts, the photos, all of it — and hauled them to the service chute at the end of the hall.

Whatever days I had left here, I'd spend erasing every trace of us.

Dominic came back close to midnight. The moment he stepped through the door, that perfume trailed him like a second shadow.

He shrugged off his coat and froze, staring at the empty wall. "Sera. Where are the photos?"

I curled my fingers until my nails bit into my palms. "They fell. I put them away."

I turned toward the hallway.

He followed. "Why not put them back?"

I glanced at him — the open collar of his shirt, the faint bruise on his neck that wasn't there this morning, the thin red line along his collarbone that no business meeting leaves behind.

I dropped my gaze. "The pins gave out. Nothing to hold them up anymore."

He didn't catch the meaning. Relief smoothed his face. "I'll fix it this weekend. We'll put them all back."

He disappeared into the bathroom. The door clicked shut.

I stood in the hallway, speaking to the closed door in a voice only I could hear.

"You can rehang photos, Dominic. You can't rehang what's already dead."