The Final Score: When The Wife Walks Away

I didn't keep a ledger to save my marriage to the Chicago Underboss. I kept it to justify ending it.

Every time Blake chose his "childhood friend" Ariana over me, I deducted points.

When he left me burning in a gallery fire to save her? Minus twenty.

When he gave her my grandmother's brooch? Minus fifteen.

But the score finally hit zero on the night of the storm.

Blake abandoned me at a cemetery with a broken leg because Ariana called him about a flat tire.

Alone in the rain, unable to run, I was struck by a semi-truck.

As I bled out on the operating table, the doctors begged Blake—the head trauma surgeon—for the O-negative blood reserve codes.

He refused.

He ordered them to save the blood for Ariana, just in case her "panic attack" turned into shock.

He didn't know the dying patient was his wife.

Because of that decision, my body shut down to protect my vital organs.

I survived, but the eight-week-old heartbeat inside me stopped.

He killed his own son to treat his mistress's anxiety.

I woke up in an empty room and pulled out the black book one last time.

"Minus five points. Killed our child for her reserve."

I signed the divorce papers, wiped my fingerprints from the penthouse, and vanished.

Two years later, I returned to Chicago as a celebrated architect.

And the man who once ruled the city was kneeling in the rain at my feet, begging for a love he had already slaughtered.

Chapter 1

I didn't start keeping score to save my marriage; I started keeping score to justify ending it.

The leather-bound ledger sat heavy in Blake's hand-a stark, ink-black blot against the pristine white marble of our master closet island.

He flipped it open.

His eyes-usually the cold, calculating gray of a Chicago winter sky-scanned the pages.

He is the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit.

A man who can order a hit with a mere nod.

A man who could cut people open on operating tables to save them, just as easily as he gutted them in alleyways to silence them.

But right now, he didn't look lethal. He looked confused.

"What is this, Caroline?"

His voice was a low rumble, the specific frequency that usually made grown men tremble.

I adjusted the silk lapel of my blouse, fighting the urge to cross my arms and protect my chest.

"It is an accounting of our assets," I said, my voice unnervingly steady. "And our liabilities."

He laughed.

It was a sharp, dismissive sound.

"You're counting dates missed? Dinners interrupted? This is petty, even for you."

"It is not petty," I replied, locking my knees to keep them from shaking. "It is data. And the data suggests a terminal trend."

He tossed the book back onto the island.

It slid across the marble, stopping inches from my hand.

"You are a Santos now," he said, stepping into my personal space.

The scent of sandalwood and expensive scotch filled my nose.

It used to make my knees weak.

Now, it just smelled like loneliness.

"You don't get to walk away just because you're bored," he whispered, his knuckles grazing my cheek-a possessive, not tender, gesture. "We don't do divorce, Caroline. We do death."

My phone didn't ring.

His did.

The ringtone was specific.

It wasn't the standard trill for business, nor the respectful buzz for his grandfather, the Don.

It was a soft, melodic chime.

Her.

Blake's demeanor shifted instantly.

The predator vanished, replaced by the protector.

"Ariana?" he answered, turning his back to me without hesitation.

I watched the muscles in his shoulders tense beneath his suit jacket.

"Slow down," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Where are you? The gallery?"

He listened for a heartbeat, then spun around, already moving toward the door.

"I have to go."

"We have dinner with Senator Moretti in twenty minutes," I reminded him, my voice cool. "This is for the zoning permits on the waterfront project."

"Ariana's gallery is on fire," he said, his gaze already distant, detached from me. "Someone threw a Molotov cocktail through the window."

I picked up the ledger.

I uncapped my pen.

"Minus ten points," I murmured to the empty room.

He paused at the door, his hand gripping the frame until his knuckles turned white.

"People could die, Caroline. Have a heart."

"Neglected future for her crisis," I finished writing, the ink dark and permanent.

I followed him.

Not because I cared about Ariana, but because I was the architect who had designed the gallery.

If it fell, my reputation fell with it.

We took the armored SUV.

Blake drove with calculated recklessness, weaving through the evening traffic and blowing through red lights.

When we arrived, the Whitfield Gallery was a gaping maw of destruction.

Orange flames licked up the modern glass façade I had spent six months meticulously designing.

Smoke billowed into the night sky, choking out the stars.

Mark, Blake's Capo and best friend, was already there, shouting orders at the soldiers to set up a perimeter.

"Boss, fire department is two minutes out!" Mark yelled over the roar of the blaze. "It's too unstable!"

Blake didn't stop.

He slammed the car into park and jumped out before the engine even died.

"Ariana!" he screamed.

It was a raw, terrified sound-a sound he had never made for me.

"She's inside!" a sobbing assistant pointed to the entrance. "She went back for the paintings!"

Mark grabbed Blake's arm. "Blake, no! The roof is compromising!"

Blake shoved Mark away with enough force to send the large man stumbling back.

He didn't look for me.

He didn't check if I was safe.

He ran straight into the fire.

I stood by the SUV, the heat searing my skin even from this distance.

I should have stayed back.

But the structural plans were etched into my mind.

I knew where the load-bearing walls were.

I knew where the collapse would happen.

I ran after him.

The heat inside was a physical blow, a solid wall of pressure.

Smoke stung my eyes, blinding me with tears.

"Blake!" I screamed, coughing as the acrid air filled my lungs.

I saw a silhouette through the haze.

He had her.

He was cradling Ariana in his arms, his expensive cashmere coat wrapped around her head to shield her from the smoke.

She was clinging to him, perfectly unharmed, burying her face in his chest.

He turned to the exit.

He saw me.

For a split second that stretched into an eternity, our eyes locked through the swirling smoke.

He looked at me.

Then, he looked down at the woman in his arms.

He made his choice.

He kept moving toward the door.

Above me, metal groaned-a sickening, tearing sound.

The support beam.

"Blake!" I cried out, raising my hand as if to ward off the blow.

He didn't stop.

He rushed her out into the cool night air.

The beam gave way.

It slammed into my shoulder with the force of a freight train, driving me into the burning floor.

Pain-white, hot, and blinding-exploded down my arm and shattered my composure.

I lay on the burning floor, watching the empty doorway where my husband had just disappeared.

I dragged myself backward, inch by agonizing inch, choking on ash and the smell of my own singing hair.

Outside, I could hear sirens.

I could hear him shouting for paramedics for her.

With trembling fingers, I fished the small notebook from my pocket using my good hand.

The pages were warm, the ink smudged with soot.

Minus twenty points.

Saved the mistress.

Let the wife burn.