The Ninety-Ninth Time He Broke My Heart

My husband, heir to the Falcone bloodline, had carried a bad stomach the way other men carry old bullet wounds — for years, quietly, until it dropped him. This time it landed him in the private wing for the ninety-ninth time, all because he'd eaten off some back-alley cart with his little errand-girl.

This time, I didn't do what I always did. I didn't rise before dawn and carry in the healing broth I'd simmered five hours over the stove, the way a soldier's wife carries in what keeps a man breathing.

Instead, I just called for takeout.

Lorenzo Falcone finished the nourishing soup I'd had sent up, wiped his mouth, and gave a helpless little smile.

"The girl wanted to try the extra-spicy this time. Neither of us expected it to hit her so hard after."

"Adriana Valente, thank God I have you. A woman who knows the body better than any doctor we keep on the payroll. Sorry to put you through all this trouble again."

I said nothing. I only smiled and shook my head.

It used to be a lot of trouble.

To keep Lorenzo's stomach in balance — to keep the one weakness that could get a made man killed from ever surfacing — I'd stood at the stove twelve hours a day, cooking healing broths for all three meals.

And whenever it flared because he'd gone chasing street food with Gemma Riccardi, I'd get up in the dead middle of the night and simmer his medicine until the sky went gray.

I'd lived like that for five years.

But it would never be any trouble again.

After all, this was the last time.

Lorenzo didn't know that, in order to marry him, his mother and I had once struck a pact. La Signora does not arrange a union without terms, and these were hers: while the marriage held, if his condition relapsed more than ninety-nine times, the alliance would be dissolved.

Today happened to be the ninety-ninth.

My flight out was tomorrow.

——

Lorenzo reached over and rubbed my head, the way a man pats a loyal dog he means to reward.

Just woken, he still looked groggy, the pallor of last night's agony clinging to his face.

Then something seemed to occur to him.

He hurriedly stretched out the hand still tethered to the IV line and reached for the phone by the bed.

He tapped straight into the one chat pinned to the top of his messages.

That familiar pink cartoon avatar.

I saw it all the time, whenever I bent down to serve him his food or bring him something in the small hours.

His personal courier. Gemma.

There was still half a line of unfinished text sitting there, left before he'd passed out the night before.

Lorenzo finished it in a rush and sent it.

He thought for a moment, then thoughtfully added a line of explanation.

【Sorry, I accidentally fell asleep last night and didn't see your messages.】

I curled the corner of my mouth in a bitter little smile.

I remembered the last message of mine he'd bothered to answer. That was a week ago.

I'd sent it Monday morning; he'd managed a "Got it" by Friday, with no explanation at all.

So it turned out he could answer someone's messages that eagerly, after all.

Lorenzo scrolled up again, carefully going over every single thing Gemma had sent.

No matter how long ago a message had come, if he hadn't answered it, he quoted each one back, one by one.

He thought hard, typing out line after line.

Soon the whole screen was full of the green bubbles of his replies.

The chat between Lorenzo and me had always been full of green too.

Except it was all messages I'd sent to him.

From the small everyday things to the daily reminders about what he couldn't afford to eat, I always had more to say to him than I could ever finish.

But he only ever answered me with a few words. Mm. Sure. Got it.

Whenever I let the smallest displeasure show, Lorenzo would just put on that weary expression.

"Adriana, I'm really busy. The Family doesn't run itself."

"We're not children anymore. Stop bringing me every little trivial thing, all right?"

Trivial?

I didn't know. When my cramps left me doubled over and unable to straighten up, all I'd wanted was for Lorenzo to bring home a box of ibuprofen on his way through the door.

I really didn't know whether that counted as some trivial little thing.

But when Gemma offhandedly complained that the food was too spicy, Lorenzo could type back a hundred words and have something sent to her door on the spot.

And the ache in my chest spread, wave after wave.

I looked away and silently gathered up the food containers.

The only sound left in the room was Lorenzo typing.

When the first light of morning came through the window and fell across my face, I felt strangely far away.