Chapter2

I walked out of that building like a ghost.

A cab idled at the curb. I pulled open the door and gave the address.

Thirty minutes later I was standing in the living room of our penthouse apartment.

Our home. That was what Dante called it when he bought this place.

The air inside was thick with his presence—cigars, whiskey, the particular aftershave he wore.

I used to find that smell comforting. Now it made my skin crawl.

I started packing.

The bedroom first.

On the nightstand sat the only photo of us together—the one taken on the yacht. He had his arm around me, and I was laughing so hard my eyes were nearly shut.

That was two years ago. He had just been made godfather, and all of New York's underworld was saying his name. He'd had too much to drink that day, held me close, and swore to God I was the only woman he would ever love.

I picked up the frame, opened the back, and slid the photo out. Then I tore it in half.

His half went into the trash bag. My half I held in my fist.

Into the walk-in closet. I opened the jewelry cabinet—everything he had ever given me was in there.

A diamond bracelet. A third-anniversary gift. Ruby earrings, bought last Christmas. A necklace he'd had custom-made, the pendant engraved with my initials.

One by one, I took them out. One by one, I dropped them in.

The clothes too. He'd always said I looked best in the red dress—made me wear it to every family gathering. The fur coat he'd draped over my shoulders himself, claimed he'd brought it back from Milan.

And the bags. Hermès. Chanel. Limited editions from boutiques around the world, ferried back by his men.

All of it. Into the bag.

When the bag was full I dragged it to the elevator, rode down, and heaved it into the dumpster.

Back in the apartment, I poured a whiskey. The liquor burned down my throat and made my eyes sting.

I moved to the window and looked out over New York.

This city was everywhere his. The casino below. The container terminal at the port. The weapons depot in Brooklyn. He sat at the center of all of it, controlling everything.

Including what I used to be.

That night three years ago came flooding back.

I had been in New York for only three months, running an errand for a friend at one of the dock warehouses. Then gunshots—I didn't even understand what was happening. I just knew someone was yanking me backward by the arm.

It was Dante. I didn't know who he was yet. All I knew was that he shoved me into a corner and put himself between me and the bullets.

One of those bullets punched through his shoulder. His blood splattered warm across my face.

He kept firing. One arm around me, the other shooting back, shouting at his men to break through. He pinned me so tightly I couldn't move, and all I could hear was his heartbeat—fast and hard, like a drum.

Then he collapsed against me. I was soaked in blood and I thought he was dead.

He looked up at me with what remained of his breath, and his mouth pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile. You're okay... that's what matters.

I got him to the hospital. Six hours of surgery. When he came around, the first thing he did was ask if I was hurt.

I put flowers on his nightstand and asked him why he had saved me.

He took my hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. Because you're the only person I've ever wanted to protect.

After he was discharged, he pursued me for three months. I said no and he stood outside my building and waited. One day it poured, and he stood there for three hours. Eventually I went downstairs and dragged him inside.

He was soaked through but he grinned like a kid. You finally let me in.

He sent flowers every day. Picked me up from work every day. Said he loved me every day.

I turned him down ninety-nine times.

On the hundredth, he proposed.

He went down on one knee—those hands that could take a life at a thousand yards were shaking as they held the ring. I had never seen him like that. The youngest godfather in New York mafia history, a man who killed without blinking, kneeling in front of me and barely able to form words.

Marry me, he said. I'll spend my life shielding you with mine.

I said yes.

The day he left the hospital, he held me and whispered against my ear: You're my only weakness—and my armor.

I thought that was an eternal vow.

My phone buzzed.

I picked it up and opened the recording I had copied. Dante's call last night, from inside Scarlett's apartment.

I pressed play.

You like it? His voice—low and graveled.

Scarlett's laugh. I love it... Dante, does your wife know you're like this?

Don't bring her up.

Why not? Isn't she your one and only?

Dante laughed. A laugh I had never heard from him—relaxed, unguarded. She's the one I keep at home. You're the one who lets me breathe. Different things.

How different?

She'll always be my wife. But you... His voice dropped. You make me want to let go.

You're not afraid she'll find out?

Her? She'll never find out. And even if she did—what could she do? She couldn't survive without me.

The recording kept going. I didn't want to hear any more.

The man who had taken a bullet for me. The man who had stood in the rain waiting for me to say yes. The man who told me I was his armor.

That man was lying in another woman's bed.

I set the phone on the table. My fingers brushed something cold.

The engagement ring. Three years on my hand, taken off only just now.

I walked to the window.

And threw it out.

The man who had shielded me with his body. The man who had called me his only one. The man who had made me believe in love.

He had changed.

Or maybe he had always been this way, and I was only seeing it clearly now.