The Woman in His Murder Case Was His Wife

The rain came down over the back roads outside Avar City in thin silver sheets, and it was on one of those roads, eight months heavy with his child, that my husband left me.

I was the alliance bride the Falcone bloodline had never wanted. When I was eight months gone with Lorenzo Falcone's child, he abandoned me on a rain-slicked country road because his phone had rung, and on the other end of it was Bianca Moretti, the Family girl who had come back.

An SUV came out of the dark and found me.

In the last thread of my life, with the gravel biting cold through my coat and the world tilting sideways, I called Lorenzo. I heard him answer. I heard the impatience in his breath before he ever spoke, and then he hung up on me the way a man swats away a fly.

"Bianca's burning up with fever. Can you stop being unreasonable and bothering me?"

As he wished, I would never bother him again.

The next day, Lorenzo Falcone took on a sanctioned wet-work case and stood as the Family's Counselor for the very soldier who had run me into the dark.

It was Carmela's name-day feast, the one Sunday of the year the whole Falcone bloodline gathered under her roof, and Lorenzo and I had driven two hours out of the city toward the old country estate where he had been raised.

The road unspooled through wet farmland, black hedgerows sliding past the tinted glass, the wheelman keeping the big car steady and silent the way soldiers of the Family were trained to be silent. I had my hands folded over the swell of my belly. Somewhere beneath my ribs the child turned, slow and heavy, and I pressed my palm flat to feel it, as if that small proof of life inside me might be enough to hold the two of us together against everything I already knew.

Then his phone rang.

I did not have to see the screen. I knew it by what it did to him. Lorenzo Falcone was a man who weighed every syllable before he spent it, a man who could sit across from an enemy bloodline and roll his fountain pen between two fingers until the other man's nerve broke. But when that particular ring came, all of that composure drained out of him in a breath.

"Bianca." His voice cracked open, soft, hungry.

I heard her through the speaker, thin and trembling, a wounded-bird whisper pitched for exactly this.

"Lorenzo, I feel so bad. I have a high fever. I'm all alone."

Something in him snapped taut and then broke loose. The pen was nowhere near him now, but I watched his knuckles go white against the leather of the armrest.

"Bianca, don't be afraid. I'll be there right now. Wait for me. Just wait for me."

I sat there in the cold hush of the car and felt the familiar weight settle into my chest like a stone dropped into still water. Whenever Bianca Moretti called, Lorenzo dropped whatever he was holding and ran to her. It had never once been different. Not once in the whole miserable arrangement they called a marriage.

……

I tried to reach him anyway, the way a fool keeps trying a locked door.

"Lorenzo," I said, keeping my voice even, gentle, "we're almost to the estate. Your mother has been cooking since dawn. Go and sit down at her table first. Only a few miles now."

He told the wheelman to pull over. The tires crunched onto the shoulder, and the rain drummed harder on the roof, and Lorenzo turned to look at me with something cold and dismissive moving behind his eyes.

"Adriana, what's wrong with you? Didn't you hear Bianca say she's sick?"

The soldier at the wheel kept his face forward, kept his eyes on the black road, the way a made man learns to be furniture when the boss's temper turns. The silence in that car pressed in from every side.

"You go home and sit at my mother's feast," Lorenzo went on, each word clipped and final. "We're not far. You can walk from here. Bianca can't take care of herself. I have to go to her now."

I looked at him, and the shock of it stole the breath clean out of me, and behind the shock came the disappointment, older and heavier than any single moment could hold.

"Lorenzo." My voice came out lower than I wanted. "I'm eight months along. The doctor said the baby could come early at any time. He said not to travel alone."

He let his gaze drop to my belly, and his mouth curled, and he made a small cold sound in his throat like a man tasting something spoiled.

"Adriana. You know exactly how you ended up carrying that child. I married you out of obligation to the bloodline, nothing else. Don't stand there and try to hold that belly over my head like a knife. It only makes me sick to look at you."

The words went into me like a blade slid between the ribs, clean and deep, and for a moment I truly could not breathe. My hand found the thin silver band on my ring finger and turned it, once, twice, the small nervous circling I did when the fear rose up and there was nowhere to put it.

I had always known. From the first night that trapped us, from the day the two bloodlines struck their bargain and handed me over as the price of an alliance, I had known that Lorenzo Falcone married me only for the child in my belly. In his eyes I had never been a wife. I was only a woman who had schemed her way into the Family, a debt he had paid with a ring and hated paying still.

Outside, the rain kept falling on the black road, and the soldier at the wheel did not move, and Lorenzo waited for me to open the door and step out into it alone.