From the night Lorenzo Falcone first claimed me as his, I made every one of his birthday cakes by hand, year after year.
I'd seen the cartoon icon glowing on his phone.
It was Bianca Greco's profile picture.
The drawing room fell silent.
And just as Lorenzo caught up to the fact that he'd asked something completely unreasonable, I gave a small nod.
"Send me the picture. I'll go buy the ingredients now."
That dinner seven years ago, if Lorenzo hadn't been seated at the head of the table.
I was fresh out of school, brand new to the life, with no one's protection over my name.
I never would have walked away from those men unscathed.
Once I finished this cake, I really wouldn't owe him a single thing.
Watching my forlorn figure head for the door, Lorenzo called out, dazed.
I didn't turn around. I only asked,
"Anything else?"
"...The money for the ingredients. I had it sent to you."
In the elevator down from his penthouse, I opened our chat history.
I noticed, with a bitter sort of amusement, that I'd sent him five thousand three hundred and sixty-three messages.
He'd replied to twenty-five.
Back in the drawing room.
The chime announced that my refund of his ten-thousand-dollar transfer had been bounced back.
Lorenzo's hand tightened around his phone.
At eight that evening, my phone rang. It was Lorenzo.
"Adriana, where are you?"
I was eating at a little noodle shop near my place, far from any of the Family's fronts. I didn't answer the question directly. I only asked,
"Did you need something?"
His voice was gentle.
"No. I just wanted to tell you the cake you made was as delicious as ever."
He paused, then added in a low voice,
"Thank you. You worked hard."
Before I could respond, Bianca's syrupy voice piped up.
"Adriana, honey. Lorenzo told me you made my birthday cake yourself today, is that true?
Dio, you're so amazing.
Not like me, all clumsy and useless. Lorenzo's always scolding me, calling me his little airhead."
The second Bianca finished inviting me to her birthday party, Lorenzo's voice came back.
"Adriana, you don't need to come."
And with that, he hung up.
Yet only minutes later, he sent a location pin, with a message:
【When you come, grab Bia a bag of tomato chips from the shop nearby.】
When I pushed open the door to the private room, Lorenzo was feeding Bianca cake.
The moment he saw me, his eyes filled with displeasure.
I knew the pin and the text had both come from Bianca.
But I came anyway.
When Bianca called me "the wife" with a sugary little laugh, Lorenzo glared at me, cold-faced.
"Didn't I tell you not to come?"
"I'm sorry, Lorenzo. I just wanted chips so badly, so I tricked Adriana into coming."
Watching Bianca pout, wounded, her fingers drifting to her collarbone as if reaching for a necklace that wasn't there.
Lorenzo ruffled her hair, doting, and murmured that she was his greedy little kitten.
Sensing he was in a good mood, I pulled out the papers at once.
"Don Falcone, one of the associates has a family matter and needs leave to go. Please put your name to this."
By the code, a severing of allegiance like this should pass through the men who handled such things, weighed and approved before it ever reached him.
But the moment his consigliere's people saw whose name sat on the form, they sent it right back to me.
The room was dim, and Lorenzo, busy bantering and flirting with Bianca, did exactly as I'd hoped: he didn't even glance at the name on the form. He just signed.
But as I reached to take the form back, he suddenly pressed his hand over mine.
He asked, thoughtful,
"Adriana, you came here just for this?"
When I nodded, his face went a little grim.
Not two seconds later, he let go of me fast, as if shocked.
He must have felt the blisters scalded into my hand from boiling the sugar.
He found it revolting.
Just then, as if she'd discovered something delightful, Bianca said to me,
"Adriana, that red string on your wrist looks so familiar.
Oh, now I remember. A few days ago I saw one exactly like it in our trash can."
Pretending not to see Lorenzo's hand move to cover his own wrist.
I answered flatly,
"This kind of red string is common. If you like it, I can give you the one on my wrist."
Bianca didn't want it.
Walking out of the room, the first thing I did was find a trash can and throw away the red string I'd worn for seven years.
The cord I'd touched a thousand times whenever my resolve had wavered. I didn't touch it now. I let it fall.
While I waited for the elevator, my mother called.
She asked if I'd booked my way home yet.
I said, "In a few days."
The words had barely left my mouth when Lorenzo's puzzled voice came from behind me.
"Book what?"
I hung up and lied without a flicker of expression.
"There's a restaurant everyone's talking about. You have to reserve ahead."
At that, Lorenzo said nothing more.
He just took me by the hand and got a suite at a hotel the Family owned a few streets over.
He opened his laptop and started handling urgent business.
We worked in easy, wordless sync until the small hours, and while we waited for word from a contact overseas, I couldn't fight it anymore and fell asleep.
