Chapter6

Saturday night, eight o'clock. Two suitcases stood side by side in the entryway.

The boat to the island left first thing tomorrow morning. I was packed and ready.

Dante was on the sofa taking a call, his voice kept deliberately low. But I was in the kitchen doorway pouring a glass of water, and I caught the last few words anyway.

"Got it. I'm coming now."

He hung up and came to find me, wearing the expression I knew far too well.

Apologetic. Urgent. And underneath it, that almost-invisible guilt.

He laid his hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Vivian. I have to step out and handle something."

I looked at him over the rim of my glass and said nothing.

"There's an emergency at the port. I have to go myself."

"We're leaving for the island first thing tomorrow morning," I said.

"I know. I'll deal with it and come straight to the island. You go ahead with the boat—I'll be there a few hours behind you."

Liar.

I looked at his eyes. Gray-blue. Beautiful.

Right now they carried a flicker of evasion, but mostly that uncompromising certainty—the look of a man who has already made his choice and is merely informing you of it.

But I wanted to try one last time. For the sake of my three years. To give him one final chance.

"Can't someone else go? Luca, or Cesare?"

I heard something in my own voice—a plea I hadn't intended to let through.

Something crossed his face. Quick, but I saw it.

"Luca's in Brooklyn dealing with something else. Cesare can't handle this one."

He smiled—that soothing, coaxing smile. His hand came up to touch my face.

"Business stuff. You wouldn't understand it. It'll only be a few hours. I promise I'll spend all day with you tomorrow."

I held his gaze for several seconds.

His eyes slid sideways for just a moment, then came back to me.

"I mean it. I promise."

"That's what you said last night too."

Last chance, Dante.

He exhaled and reached out to hold me. I stepped back. His arms stayed open in the air between us.

"This one is a real emergency. That cargo run—something's gone wrong with the shipment. If I don't deal with it tonight the losses will be significant."

"What cargo?"

"Just—the port job. You know the one."

I didn't. He had never told me the details of his business; he always said not to worry. Now he was using it as an excuse, knowing I had nothing to push back with.

I nodded.

"Go ahead, then."

He visibly relaxed. A smile broke across his face. He stepped forward and pulled me in.

"Thank you for understanding. I swear tomorrow is all yours. Anything you want on the island, we'll do it."

His chin rested on top of my head. His hand moved in slow, familiar circles on my back.

He had done this thousands of times over three years.

I used to think it was comfort. Now it felt like a courtesy.

"I love you," he said. "Wait for me."

He walked past me, picked up his coat from the entryway, and pushed through the door.

I went to the window and looked down. His black sedan was at the curb, the driver already holding the rear door open.

And at the corner, under the streetlamp, the red sports car was parked and waiting.

I couldn't tell from here whether someone was inside. But I knew there was. That car was waiting for him. For her.

He wasn't going to the port.

I could picture it. He would get out of his car. She would come forward to meet him. He would pull her into his arms.

I watched his sedan pull away. Then I watched the red car follow it and vanish.

Then I went to the bedroom and took out the gun he had given me.

I drove to the cliffs at the shore.

The eastern tip of Long Island. Below: black rocks and open sea.

No one came here at night. Just the wind and the sound of waves beating against the reef, over and over.

I parked at the roadside and walked to the edge with the gun. The wind was fierce enough to whip my hair across my face. All I could hear was the water.

Far away and close at once. Like another world.

I crouched down, took out the bag of blood I'd brought, and poured it over the gun and across the rocks around it.

I stood. Stepped back. Studied the scene.

Then I drew the gun and fired once into the open air.

Bang.

The casing landed in the blood. I dropped the gun beside it—it struck the stone and left a dent on the barrel.

Gun. Blood. Casing. It looked like someone had come here to end their life and gone over the edge.

The Ash team would make sure everything else was perfect.

By morning someone would find it. The police would be called. He would be notified.

I stood there a moment longer, looking at what I'd left behind.

Then I turned and walked back to the car.

I didn't look back.

At three in the morning I pulled into the airport parking structure, grabbed my bags, and walked into the terminal. I found the check-in counter.

"Good evening. A one-way ticket to Zurich."

The agent glanced at my passport and tapped at her keyboard.

"Ms. Phoenix, your flight departs at six. You can check your luggage now."

"Yes."

"Have a pleasant journey."

I took the boarding pass and walked toward security.

My phone was still in my pocket. I took it out and dropped it into the trash on my way through.

Goodbye, Dante. Goodbye to your world of lies and deceit.

The plane began to taxi. Then it accelerated and lifted off.

New York shrank below the window.

The towers. The streets. The places I had lived for three years. The world that belonged to Dante Moretti.

In ten hours I would wake up in another country.

No Dante. No Scarlett. No lies. No betrayal.

He would spend the rest of his life remembering that the night he chose to leave, his wife had walked to the sea and never come back.