The Woman in His Murder Case Was His Wife

I thought I had won his heart.

But I did not expect that everything would be broken beyond repair that one night.

It began with a summons to one of the Family's hotels, an invitation carrying Lorenzo's name, and the moment I stepped past the threshold of that room he pulled me into his arms as if I were something he had wanted for a long time. Afterward, when the morning came, his eyes turned to ice when they found me. There was disgust in them, cold and absolute, the kind of look a made man gives a debt he never meant to owe. No matter how many times I explained, no matter how I swore on my own blood that I had walked into that room believing it was him who called me there, he was certain it had been a snare of my own making. A trap laid by a scheming girl to bind herself to a Consigliere's name.

Later, when I was carrying his child, Carmela pressed her weight upon him, and he married me. An alliance union sealed not by wanting but by obligation, my belly the only argument that mattered at the table.

I always believed that one day I would soften him. That one day the truth would surface the way blood always does, no matter how deep you bury it. I thought I had time. I thought patience would be enough.

But now I could no longer wait for that day to come.

After Lorenzo saw Bianca safely to her door, he turned the car back toward the estate we shared. He drove the rain-slick roads distracted, his gaze pulling to his phone again and again as though the screen might offer him something. The wipers dragged their slow rhythm across the glass and he barely seemed to notice them, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the device that stayed dark and silent.

When he reached the house and found every window black, not a single lamp burning behind the tall shuttered glass, he could not help the frown that tightened his brow.

"She has a temper," he muttered into the empty dark of the car. "She would not dare stay out the whole night."

Because it was true. In all the time I had been bound to him, no matter how deeply he had wounded me, no matter how cold the silence between us had grown, I never once stayed away until morning. I always came home. I always came back to a man who did not want me.

Lorenzo glanced at his phone once more as he climbed the steps. Still nothing. No message. His jaw worked and irritation flickered through him as he loosened the knot of his tie with two sharp fingers, the silk hissing free. The house around him was too quiet, the marble floor throwing back the sound of his own footsteps, the tall clock in the study ticking somewhere deep in the dark like a patient thing that knew more than he did.

Then his cell phone rang, and in the hush of that empty house the sound cut through the night like a blade drawn across bone, too sharp, too loud.

He answered it fast, faster than a man should. And when he saw the name lit across the screen, Bianca, I watched something move across his face that I had never seen there before. For one bare instant it was disappointment, unguarded and honest, before he smoothed it away the way he smoothed away everything he did not wish the world to read.

"Lorenzo," Bianca's voice came soft and trembling through the line, the practiced fragility of it reaching even to where I lingered. "Please. My brother's matter, the one I told you about tonight. Help him. I have already sent him to turn himself over."

Lorenzo pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Fatigue sat heavy on him, the long day and the empty house pulling at his shoulders, and somewhere in his other hand a fountain pen had found its way between his fingers, rolling slow and idle as he weighed the words.

"Do not worry yourself, Bianca," he said, low and certain, the pen turning once more before it settled. "Your brother is my brother. I will see to it his part in this is buried as deep as it can go."