Seven Years of Omertà

His lips curved into a smile, and without a second thought, he turned and disappeared into his study. The door closed with the soft, definitive click of a man entering the only room in the house where he actually wanted to be.

Once he was out of sight, I opened up my private account and scrolled through his feed. Sure enough, there was a new post, visible to everyone but me. He had blocked me from seeing it. The Don of one of the most powerful syndicates on the Eastern Seaboard, and he was hiding social media posts from the woman who shared his bed like a teenager with a secret.

It was an apology letter.

I shouldn't have let the cutest aide in the world down. Promised her dinner after the sit-down, but business got in the way, and I made her wait a whole ten minutes. Totally my fault. I'll do better from now on, be a good boss.

I liked the post. Let him see that. Let him wonder how I found it and what I thought and whether he should come out of his study and say something. Let the wondering sit in his chest the way seven years of silence had sat in mine.

In the same breath, I received a notification from Salvatore: the arrangement, laid out in terms that any family lawyer would recognize. My skills, my knowledge, my loyalty, transferred to the Mancini operation in exchange for protection, compensation, and a life that didn't require me to bleed on a sidewalk while the man I loved drove past.

I clicked the link and signed without hesitation.

My thumb pressed against the inside of my ring finger. The bare skin where a ring had never been. Seven years, and he had never once offered. I pulled my hand away and set the phone down.

The next morning, Dominic woke up early and brought back bagels and pastries from a well-known bakery in Midtown. The kind of place where made men took their families on Sunday mornings, where the owner knew which orders went to which houses and never asked questions.

Just as I was about to open the bag with chocolate croissants, he slapped my hand away.

"You like peanut butter bagels, right? I got one just for you."

I froze for a second before realizing. The chocolate croissants weren't for me. They were for his aide. For Penelope Vitale.

I couldn't hold back anymore. "We've been together for seven years, and you still don't know I'm allergic to peanuts?"

His expression darkened, and he stood abruptly, snapping, "Stop making a fuss. Eat or don't. I don't care."

The Don's voice. The one that ended conversations in sit-downs, that made capos twice his age look at the floor. He used it on me the way he used it on everyone. As if I were just another person in the room who needed to stop talking.

As he prepared to leave, I walked into the bedroom and came back with a bag.

"When you see Penelope later, do me a favor and return this to her."

His brows knitted together before taking the bag. When he looked inside and saw the lace bra, a look of surprise flashed in his eyes. He opened his mouth like he was about to explain something, but when he saw my calm, indifferent face, he only said, "I'll tell her to stop being so careless."

"Yeah," I replied with a quiet tone.

The lighter was in his hand now. I hadn't seen him pick it up, but there it was, rolling between his thumb and forefinger in that slow, absent rhythm. Penny's lighter. The dead sister's keepsake, turning and turning while he stood in our kitchen holding another woman's underwear and deciding how little he needed to say.

Sensing my low mood, Dominic offered, "I can give you a ride to work today."

Seven years together, and not once had he driven me to work, no matter how bad the weather was. He always kept Family business and personal life separate. Those were his words. His rule. The line he drew so cleanly that I spent years believing it was principle instead of what it actually was: a way to keep me at a distance he could manage.

But Penelope? On her first day as his personal aide, she was already getting chauffeured by the Don of the Sloane family. The black armored sedan. The soldier holding the door. The whole performance of protection that I had never once been offered.

I pressed my thumb against the inside of my ring finger again. The bare skin. The absence.

"No need," I said. "I'll manage."