A whole flood of instructions filled the message box, every last one of them Gemma's likes and dislikes.
It was the longest text Lorenzo had sent me in years.
My eyes lingered a long time on one line: "Gemma loves spicy food. Every dish has to have chili in it."
Then, word by word, I typed my reply.
"Lorenzo, I'm allergic to chili."
I've never been able to eat spicy food. One touch of chili and my skin breaks out red.
If I swallow any by mistake, my throat can even swell shut and I can't breathe.
It was the very first thing Lorenzo memorized back when he was courting me, back when a Falcone heir still sent his soldiers across three territories to find the doctor who'd keep me safe.
Now he'd forgotten it completely.
The other end went quiet for a moment, then the message tone chimed twice.
"Adriana, don't throw a little tantrum."
"She's our guest. You just adjust and deal with it."
I gave a bitter little laugh, and the hand holding the phone dropped, limp.
Lorenzo had it all figured out. He knew I'd swallow anything for him.
Because I'd paid such a heavy price just to be with him. I'd closed the clinic that treated half the made men in the city, handed my name to the Falcone famiglia, and become the woman who counted his pills at 3 a.m. so the sickness eating him alive couldn't finish the job.
A price so heavy that Lorenzo believed I'd bend on everything for his sake.
So heavy that Lorenzo thought I could never leave him.
When Gemma came in behind Lorenzo, her eyes were still red.
She was muttering something scolding under her breath.
"How could you not tell me your blood sugar dropped? Don't you dare do that again!"
Lorenzo didn't mind at all. He only gazed at her tenderly, a doting look in his eyes I hadn't seen in ages.
Spotting me, Gemma abruptly cut off what she was saying and offered a small greeting.
"Ma'am."
Lorenzo, too, like a man pulled out of a lovely dream, instantly reined in his expression.
At the table, Gemma chattered on about everything happening in her life.
From how the kitten at home was shedding again to the weeds by the roadside coming into bloom.
Lorenzo, who had always insisted on "no talking during meals," answered her earnestly, now and then setting food into her bowl.
"Try this. Your favorite, spicy poached fish."
Gemma picked up a piece and put it in her mouth. The next second, she spat it right back out.
"What is this? This poached fish isn't authentic at all, and that chili chicken is nothing special either!"
"Lorenzo, is this what you're stuck eating every day? Your housekeeper can't cook!"
My fingertips pinching the chopsticks began to turn white.
I was about to speak when Lorenzo shot me a warning glance. The kind a made man gives across a sit-down when the wrong word from you gets someone hurt.
Gemma's eyes rolled, and she leaned in close to Lorenzo, jiggling his arm. Around her wrist the little bracelet he'd given her caught the light, and her fingers spun it slow against her skin.
"Lorenzo, why don't we go out to eat instead? I know a place with amazing poached fish."
Lorenzo nodded with a smile and rose without a moment's hesitation.
Shoulder to shoulder, the two of them left, laughing and teasing.
From start to finish, Lorenzo never once looked back at me.
With the soft click of the door closing, the room sank into a dead silence. Somewhere in the walls a clock ticked, and it was the loudest thing left in the house.
I sat at the edge of the table, picked up the one dish I could eat, the plain stir-fried greens, and forced it into my mouth, bite by bite.
The rice was salty, lodged in my throat, refusing to go down no matter what.
The phone rang.
I choked it all down and hit answer.
My mother's plain, anxious voice came through.
"Adriana, sweetheart, the farm goods I sent, is Lorenzo getting used to them all right?"
The farm-fresh goods from our home country are famous all over — the Marchetti name still means something honest in the old world, well past the reach of any Family's shadow.
Ever since she learned Lorenzo's stomach was bad, my mother picked out the freshest goods every year and sent them so I could work them into his meals.
Floating in the spicy broth of the poached fish. Tucked into the sides of the chili chicken.
Looking at the tableful of her castoff love, I swallowed the ache in my throat and fought to steady my voice.
"He loves them. With these goods, his stomach hardly hurts anymore!"
My mother's voice shifted, bright with joy.
"That's good, that's good."
"This year's best batch of goods, I haven't touched a bit of it. I've saved it all for you two. I'll send it over in a couple of days."
