Dominic's deep, dark eyes showed a hint of anger mixed with concern, emotions he himself probably hadn't realized.
Lorenzo strolled over from the bar, raising a brow as he teased, "Adriana, you think those two might end up bound again?"
His voice wasn't particularly loud, but in a room where men measured every word, it was enough to carry to Dominic.
Dominic's head came up sharply at Lorenzo's words. When his gaze found me standing a few feet away, a fleeting trace of guilt crossed his face.
"I never thought about going back to her," he said, the words coming too fast for a man who never hurried. "She was just drunk."
I smiled faintly and shook my head. "Don Moretti, I understand. Bianca's in no state to look after herself. You should see her home."
He frowned slightly, displeased at the title, the formal distance of it. But he didn't refuse what I'd offered.
As he steadied Bianca against him and led her toward the door, he even turned back to instruct Lorenzo, "Don't let her wander the territory this late. See her home early."
Watching their figures disappear down the corridor, a sharp pain pricked my heart. And yet, at the same time, I found it painfully ironic.
In my past life, I had bound myself to Dominic the way I'd always dreamed, the secret pact sealed between us. But I never got the happiness I wanted.
On my birthday, I asked for nothing more than a quiet day with him. Instead he told me, "Celebrating birthdays is a waste of time. I'm busy. I don't have time for that."
Later that same day, I saw photographs on Bianca's social pages of the two of them hiking, camping, laughing in the open air.
When my stomach ulcer flared and I asked him to take me to the doctor for a check, he said, "I'm not a physician. Having me there won't heal you. Don't bother me."
Yet I learned afterward that he'd driven Bianca to the hospital himself, for nothing more than a mild cold.
When I was eight months along and the crash left me bleeding out, the doctor called him in a panic, begging him to come sign the consent for surgery.
His answer was as cold as ice. "Is she dead? If not, don't call me."
As his words came through the phone, I heard Bianca's delighted voice somewhere behind him. "Dominic, this concert was worth every favor you called in. They're finally on stage."
The line went dead. Blood soaked the sheets beneath me, spreading fast until half the blanket had gone red.
The crushing weight of how I died in that other life pressed down on me again, suffocating, as I stood there remembering. I clutched my chest and let out a bitter smile.
Dominic, if you never loved me, then I won't love you anymore either.
That night, Lorenzo brought me home just in time to make the curfew our father had set under the old rules of the house.
The next morning I woke groggy and reached for my phone to check the hour. What greeted me instead was a message from Bianca.
She'd sent a photo of Dominic asleep at her place, with the caption: Dominic stayed the night to keep me company.
Seeing it, I felt nothing. I replied with a single word. Oh.
I ignored her after that, but she wasn't willing to let it lie. Soon another photo came through, this time of breakfast.
This is the breakfast Dominic made for me this morning, she wrote. He even made heart-shaped eggs, my favorite.
Dominic had never once set foot in a kitchen in all our years. He always said the kitchen was a woman's place, that no man of standing belonged there.
So for him, I, a woman who had never cooked a thing in her life, signed up for lessons just to learn. As long as I was around, there was always a warm, home-cooked meal waiting for him.
But seeing the trouble he went to for Bianca, I understood at last how ridiculous I had been.
I glanced at her messages, didn't reply, and calmly set the phone down to finish my own breakfast.
Five minutes later, a message from Dominic appeared.
He said nothing about the night before. Instead: The yam and pork rib soup you made last time was good. Make some today and bring it to me.
And don't add scallions this time.
