Chapter 4

The days passed quickly after that.

Taviano and I barely spoke, though Mirelle occasionally brought home some piece of gossip from the Family.

Apparently, he and Isolde had gotten into a nasty argument at a gathering attended by several capos and their wives. Things had escalated badly enough that Taviano stormed out, leaving Isolde behind in front of everyone.

"And guess what?" Mirelle said, looking far too pleased with herself. "People are saying they fought about you."

I smiled and went back to what I was doing.

Once, I would've called anyone who might know what happened, desperate for proof that Taviano was finally growing tired of Isolde. Even the smallest disagreement between them would have felt like a chance to win him back.

But whatever had happened at that gathering was their problem, not mine.

I had a flight to catch.

After that, Taviano started calling more frequently. Sometimes he wanted to know where I'd been.

I declined every invitation.

He grew increasingly irritated by my refusals, but I had no intention of spending my last days in New York explaining myself to him.

On the twelfth, I woke up to a message from the airline confirming my flight the following morning.

By noon, my bags were packed and my documents were in order. Mirelle offered to drive me to the airport, but I told her I'd arranged a car.

"You're really doing this," she said quietly.

I nodded.

She looked at me for a long moment before pulling me into a hug. "Good. And don't you dare let my idiot brother talk you out of it."

That evening, I dressed for dinner.

Taviano had promised we'd have the night to ourselves, and although I knew better than to put much faith in his promises, I still wanted to keep mine.

I chose a simple black dress and the pearl earrings I'd worn to our first wedding.

For a moment, I considered leaving them behind, but then I remembered they had belonged to my mother long before Taviano ever entered my life.

Not everything beautiful had to remind me of him.

I arrived at the restaurant shortly before eight.

Taviano hadn't told me where he'd booked, but his secretary had sent the reservation details earlier that afternoon. It was a private dining room at an upscale Manhattan restaurant overlooking the Hudson.

The hostess recognized my name immediately and escorted me upstairs.

A table had been set for two beside the windows. White roses stood in a crystal vase, and the lights of the city shimmered across the dark water below.

I took my seat and waited.

At eight-fifteen, I checked my phone.

Nothing.

At eight-thirty, the waiter asked whether I'd like to order. I told him I was waiting for someone.

By nine, the restaurant had grown quieter, and the candle between the two empty plates had burned halfway down.

I knew Taviano's work could be unpredictable. A Don didn't always have the luxury of keeping his evenings free, especially when rival families were involved.

But he'd promised there would be no business tonight.

At nine-fifteen, a voice message finally arrived.

"Vespera, sweetheart, I'm sorry. Isolde isn't feeling well, and I had to take care of her."

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

"Listen, we'll do dinner another time. She's leaving tomorrow, so after that we'll have all the time we want. I'll make it up to you, okay?"

There was music in the background, along with the low hum of conversation. Then I heard Isolde laugh.

The message ended.

I sat motionless for a moment before opening Instagram.

Isolde had posted a photo less than ten minutes earlier.

She was sitting beside Taviano at a candlelit table, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. Behind them, I recognized the private club where he frequently entertained the heads of other Mafia families.

The caption read:

No matter how busy he is, he always makes time for me.

I looked at the photograph, then at the untouched place setting across from me.

So much for her being unwell.

Nine marriages, and somehow I'd still let myself believe he might show up for one last dinner.

I'd wanted to sit across from him, have a proper conversation, and say goodbye to the man I'd once loved enough to give up my family for.

Instead, he was having dinner with Isolde.

I called the waiter over.

"Could I have the check, please?"

He glanced at the empty chair. "Would you like to order something first, ma'am?"

I considered it, then shook my head.

"No, thank you. I'm finished."

For years, I'd treated every broken promise as something I could fix if I just loved Taviano a little harder.

I'd excused his absence, forgiven his cruelty, and convinced myself that the next wedding would finally be different.

Tonight, he'd made his choice again.

The only difference was that I no longer wanted him to choose me.

At seven the next morning, I checked in.

My phone buzzed with a message from Taviano.

What time should I pick you up? We need to get the paperwork done today.

The thirteenth.

The day he'd promised to marry me for the tenth time.

I stared at his message for a moment, then deleted his contact.

At eight, while I waited at the gate, Taviano called.

I declined the call and blocked his number.

By nine, I was seated on the plane, my suitcase already loaded into the cargo hold and my passport tucked safely into my bag.

The flight attendant announced that we would be departing shortly and asked everyone to put their phones in airplane mode.

I was reaching for mine when Mirelle's name appeared on the screen.

I answered, expecting her to ask whether I'd boarded safely.

Instead, I heard Taviano's voice.

"Vespera?"

He sounded breathless, almost frantic. There was none of his usual cold authority in his voice.

"Where the hell are you?"