Liliana clung to him, burying her face against his neck, her shoulders shaking as she cried openly, without restraint or shame. And Dante… Dante didn't pull away. He held her, one hand resting protectively against her back, his gaze lowered to her with unmistakable concern.
I had never seen him look at me like that.
Not once.
He leaned down slowly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, lingering there just enough to blur the line between comfort and something more until suddenly, she pushed him away.
"We can't," she said, breathless, her eyes red and glistening. "Mr. Falcone, you're married. We can't do this."
For a brief moment, I thought, hoped, that would be the end of it.
But Dante didn't get angry. He didn't step back.
Instead, he moved toward her again.
His voice dropped, softer this time, deliberate and almost coaxing. "Lily, if this is making you unhappy… I can have the union dissolved."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
My hands clenched tightly at my sides, nails digging into my palms. Dante said it so easily. Dissolution. As if it were nothing more than a casual decision. As if the ten years we had spent together, the years I had given him, the years I had built my life around him, meant absolutely nothing. As if the blood-bound marriage sanctioned before Salvatore and the Family could simply be waved away for a woman who smoothed her thumbnail across her lower lip and waited for him to crumble.
I didn't stay to hear anything more.
There was nothing left worth hearing.
He had never once called me by a nickname, not even in private moments when the world outside didn't matter. Always "Adriana." Polite. Distant. Formal to the point of coldness. Even in bed, he treated it like an obligation, something to be completed efficiently rather than shared. There was never warmth, never closeness.
I had always been the one reaching out.
The one trying.
The one convincing myself that if I just held on a little longer, he would eventually meet me halfway.
For ten years, that was the story of us.
I used to believe he was simply reserved, someone who didn't know how to express emotion. I excused his distance, softened his indifference, turned every absence into something understandable. He was the heir to the Falcone Syndicate. He carried weight no civilian husband carried. I told myself that was enough to explain the silence.
But now, standing outside that door, listening to the tenderness in his voice for someone else, I finally understood.
He wasn't incapable of love.
He just didn't love me.
I bit down hard on my lower lip, the sharp sting grounding me as I stepped forward quietly. Without making a sound, I placed his phone by the office door, setting it down gently as if even that small noise might shatter what little composure I had left.
Then I turned and walked away.
The soldier stationed at the end of the hall glanced at me, then looked away. He had heard everything. In this Family, everyone always heard everything, and no one ever said a word.
By the time I reached the street, it had started to rain.
At first, it was a light drizzle, barely noticeable. But within moments, the sky opened up, rain pouring down in sheets, drenching everything in seconds. The cold water soaked through my clothes, clung to my skin, and still, I felt nothing compared to the storm breaking inside me.
I could barely hold myself together.
My vision blurred, whether from the rain or the tears I couldn't stop, I didn't know.
Distracted. Overwhelmed. Hollow.
I ran a red light.
The truck came out of nowhere.
There was a deafening crash as it slammed into the side of my car, the force of the impact sending everything spinning. Metal crumpled. Glass shattered. The world tilted violently before coming to a sudden, crushing stop.
For a moment, there was nothing but ringing silence.
Then the pain hit.
Sharp. Blinding.
I was trapped inside the wreck, the door crushed inward, my body pinned awkwardly against the seat. I tried to move, but even the smallest motion sent waves of pain through me.
My fingers trembled as I fumbled for my phone.
Out of instinct, habit more than thought, I called Dante.
The line connected quickly.
"What is it?" His voice was cold, flat, devoid of concern.
I forced myself to speak, each word dragging through the pain. "I was in a car accident… I'm stuck… I can't get out."
The smell of gasoline filled the air, sharp and suffocating. I could hear it dripping somewhere nearby. If a spark caught…
Before I could finish, another voice came through the line.
Liliana.
"Mr. Falcone, you must be tired. Let me give you a little massage."
Dante didn't hesitate.
"I'm in the middle of something," he said, almost impatiently. "I'll send someone."
And just like that, the call ended.
He never handled things himself.
Maybe, in his mind, this was responsibility. Delegating, ensuring things were taken care of. Sending a soldier, sending a driver, sending anyone but himself. But to me, it was always the same.
There was always something more important.
A sit-down.
A trip to meet the associates upstate.
A shipment to oversee.
Anything.
Everything.
Even now, even when I was trapped in a wrecked car with gasoline leaking around me, I wasn't important enough for him to come in person.
