Chapter5

When I came downstairs the next morning, Dante was already at the table.

He stood up when he saw me and crossed the room to hold me.

"Got back late last night. Hope I didn't disturb you?"

"No," I said. "I slept soundly."

He walked me to the table and pulled out my chair.

The coffee was hot. The toast was golden. He had buttered it himself and set it on my plate.

Three years. Every time he came home late, the next morning looked like this. Attentive. Solicitous. Walking on eggshells.

Only this time it was more than usual.

Guilt from cheating, maybe. Or the sense that I'd noticed something.

I didn't care which.

"Get the situation sorted out last night?" I asked.

"Yeah. That shipment at the port was a headache, but we handled it."

I nodded and took a bite of toast.

He watched me eat. His fingers tapped lightly on the table.

That was his nervous habit. Three years of watching him—I could read it easily.

"Vivian," he began, "I want to make it up to you."

I looked up.

"I've been neglecting you lately. Too much going on. This weekend—let's go to the island. Just the two of us." He covered my hand with his, his expression doing something careful and deliberate. "I have a surprise for you."

That small island off Long Island—he'd bought it two years ago. We had only been twice, and neither time for more than a day.

"A surprise?" I said.

"You'll love it." He squeezed my hand. "I promise."

I looked at the expectation in his eyes.

He thought I knew nothing. He thought a weekend getaway could patch over every late night he'd clocked lately.

"All right," I said.

He smiled and leaned in to kiss me.

I closed my eyes. Behind them: the red stiletto. The cloying perfume. The particular way he had smelled when he came home last night.

I had a great deal to do in the next three days.

On the first night, Dante drank.

He had always had a good head for liquor, but he drank heavily that evening. Maybe guilt. Maybe shame. I didn't care about his reasons. I only needed him drunk.

When he was out—sprawled across the bed—I took his phone, lifted his right hand, and pressed his thumb to the screen.

Unlocked.

I pulled up the documents I needed signed. One by one.

Asset transfer paperwork I had spent the last few days preparing. More than enough to live on after I disappeared.

I went back to the bedroom. He was half-conscious, mumbling something.

"Dante," I said softly. "I need your signature on a few things."

"Sign what?" he murmured.

"For the company. Luca said it's urgent."

He nodded. I eased him upright and put a pen in his hand. Without looking at a single page, he signed wherever I pointed.

When the last signature was done, he dropped back against the pillow and was fully out.

I stood at the edge of the bed looking at him.

Three years I had loved that face.

That face had smiled at me, cried in front of me, made promises to me. Last night it had been pressed against another woman's neck.

No matter. This island trip would be my best opportunity.

Two days from now. Gone for good.

Goodbye, Dante.