The Wife He Called Cheap Walked Away Forever

He looked ready to come apart at the seams, a Don's fury straining against the silk of his control. "If any of you think this kind of stunt is amusing," Dominic said, his voice low and lethal enough to still every glass in the private dining room, "consider this your only warning. Stay the hell away from Gianna."

Gianna stood frozen near the head of the table, her cheeks burning, her eyes brimming with tears she let everyone see. Then she spun on her heel and fled toward the door, barely holding the pieces of herself together, every step a performance the room drank in.

Dominic panicked. He could hardly walk a straight line, the wine still heavy in his blood, but he didn't hesitate for a breath. He released me, his hand falling away from my arm as though it had never rested there, and stumbled after her.

"Gianna, don't. Wait. Please. Just wait for me."

I stood where he'd left me and watched the two of them disappear down the hallway, his soldiers parting to let them pass without a word. Strangely, I felt almost nothing. Maybe because somewhere deep beneath the ribs, in the place I no longer let myself examine, I had always known the truth of it. I was the one he would drop the instant another voice called his name.

Once Dominic was gone, the room came slowly back to life. The voices returned, low at first, careful, then louder as the careful faded. The clink of crystal, the scrape of a chair, the soft confidence of people who knew exactly where the power in this Family had shifted.

"Dio, I've never seen him that worked up."

"Think he's serious about her this time?"

"Anyone with eyes can see it. Women who throw themselves at a man like that always end up looking cheap."

Laughter broke out again, easy and unhurried.

They didn't bother lowering their voices. Dominic had no respect to spare for me, and so neither did they. In this world respect ran downhill from the Don like water, and mine had been cut off at the source. My shoulder throbbed where he had leaned his weight on me earlier, the fracture beneath the bandage flaring with a deep, grinding ache. I lifted my hand and pressed it flat against the pain, gathering myself to leave before the whispering turned into something I would have to wear all night.

I caught myself twisting the thin band on my finger, the wedding ring I no longer believed in, turning it round and round as if friction could summon back something that had never truly been there.

Then Lorenzo's voice came from behind me, quiet and certain. "Eva."

I turned.

The Consigliere's face was drawn tight, the look of a man holding something carefully behind his teeth. He had taken off his glasses, but he wasn't cleaning them. He simply held them in one hand, set against his palm, untouched. "Let me drive you home," he said.

He had been in the room the entire time, then. He had seen all of it. The way Dominic let go of me without a thought. The way the laughter found its target. The way I stood there and took it like a debt come due.

I didn't know what he made of any of it. I wasn't sure, anymore, that I had the strength left to care. Lorenzo had always been there, sworn brother to Dominic from the very beginning, bound to him by blood and oath long before I ever entered this house. From the moment I first fell for Dominic, foolish and grateful and ten years deep in the Family's debt, Lorenzo had stood at his right hand. He had witnessed every pathetic, hopeful, humiliating moment of mine. There was nothing left to hide from him, and I no longer had the will to pretend there was.

The drive through the dark territory was silent. Lorenzo said nothing the whole way, the city sliding past the glass in slicks of wet neon, his hands steady on the wheel, the heavy quiet of a man who chose his words the way the Family chose its enemies. Carefully. Once.

Right as I reached for the door handle, he finally spoke.

"You're truly certain you want this? The severance?"

I stopped turning the ring. My hand went still around it, and then I let it go entirely.

I nodded.