When Marco finally called, I was still in the Family's clinic, lying beneath sheets that smelled of antiseptic and old grief. His name lit up the screen of my phone, and I felt nothing but a cold, settled frustration, the kind that has stopped expecting better.
I didn't answer. I let it ring, over and over, the sound thin against the hum of the monitors.
He stopped after the third call. I stared at the forty missed calls I'd placed to him the night before, glowing there in the log like forty small wounds, and the truth settled into me with the weight of a verdict. Whatever love he'd once carried for me was long dead and buried, the way the Family buries things it no longer needs.
Marco must not have been used to being ignored, because the text came fast. [Why aren't you home? Don't you know how dangerous it is for you to be out in your condition?]
I almost laughed at the gall of it, alone in that white room where his child had slipped out of me.
Instead, I typed the words plainly, the way you lay a card face up on a table. [I lost the baby. I'm in the clinic.]
His call came through before I'd set the phone down. His first words were not a question about me. "Adriana, are you serious? First you threaten me with severance, and now this. What else are you going to throw at me?"
His voice was ice, smooth and indifferent, as though I had not been left stranded in a blizzard with his child inside me while he warmed someone else's bed. As though the storm had been a thing of my own invention, staged to inconvenience him.
And the cruelest part, the part that curdled in my throat, was that the man speaking is the Family's own doctor. The one they trust to bring their bloodline into the world and stitch their soldiers back together in the dark. He, of all men, knew exactly what a body loses in a night like that.
Suddenly I had no more words for him. They dried up in me like a well gone to dust.
Just then a call came in from the front, the legitimate side of things, one of the Family's holdings where I'd been carving out a place for myself. I cut Marco off mid-sentence and took the other line instead, and I let the meeting swallow me whole. Somewhere in the rhythm of those clipped, professional voices, I understood what I had to do. I needed to put my own footing first. I needed to build a life that did not depend on the mercy of a man who had none.
I spent three days in that clinic before Marco noticed anything was wrong.
He called and asked, with the wounded edge of a man who expects to be waited for, "Are you angry with me? Why haven't you come home?"
"Work's been heavy. I've been sleeping at the office," I lied, too tired to wage a war I no longer wished to win.
He didn't like the distance in my voice. I could hear it unsettle him, the way a man grows uneasy when a thing he owns stops behaving like it's owned. "I'm on the day shift," he said. "I'll come collect you tonight."
"Sure," I said, and ended the call.
But I had already arranged my own car. I wasn't about to stake another evening on Marco Greco keeping his word. That blizzard had taught me the lesson clean and cold: a woman who waits on him waits in the snow until something inside her dies. I had no intention of learning it twice.
After that, we barely spoke. I let the silence between us widen and settle, and I poured myself into work, into the part of my life that answered when I called it.
By the time I let myself into the apartment that night, the city dark and the streets slick with melt, Marco finally rang again. "I thought I was supposed to pick you up. Where are you?"
"Oh," I said, slipping off my coat in the quiet. "I forgot. I'm already home."
"Adriana, what is your problem? Are you still sulking over that storm? I told you I had something important to handle that day." His tone had gone sharp, the cuffs-and-watch irritation of a man who hates to be made smaller than he believes himself to be, who needs the reminder that he is still owed deference.
I twisted the band on my finger, a slow quarter-turn around skin that had grown used to its weight, and felt how little reason was left to wear it at all.
