As I set the phone down on the counter, he came out of the bathroom, sleeves rolled to the forearm, water still on his hands. His gaze moved past me to the untouched bag on the table, and his brow creased.

He asked, "Didn't you say you hadn't eaten dinner?"

I raised my hand, showing him the stitches, the ugly black thread knotted into the swollen skin of my forearm where the dog's teeth had torn through. "The doctor said I need to avoid certain foods."

The food he brought back was either shrimp or heavily spiced. I knew without looking. That was Adriana Bellini's taste, not mine. Six years and he had never once learned what I could eat. Or perhaps he had known once, in the beginning, and simply stopped caring long before I stopped pretending it didn't matter.

His displeasure turned into something that sat unevenly on his face, a flicker of embarrassment he smothered before it could settle.

I had told him about being bitten by the dog. I had told him on the phone, my voice still shaking, while the clinic nurse cleaned gravel out of my knee. He hadn't taken it to heart. He had said, "Get it looked at," and ended the call because Adriana was waiting in the passenger seat.

He said, "Then order something else for yourself."

I nodded and took out my phone to start ordering. My thumb moved across the screen with a steadiness that surprised me. I selected a plain soup, white rice, steamed greens. The kind of meal a woman eats when she is recovering from a procedure she cannot name aloud in a house that belongs to a man who does not know she was pregnant this morning.

Seeing me not making a fuss, he looked puzzled, and his steps toward the bedroom paused. He stood in the doorway with one hand on the frame, watching me the way a man watches a lock that has always turned easily and suddenly resists the key.

He asked, "Is your next shot in three days? Do you need me to go with you?"

I replied, "No need."

I continued scrolling through the delivery menu with an expression I had practiced in the clinic bathroom mirror, the expression of a woman who has simply stopped.

Just as Dominic sensed my strangeness, I also felt his unusual behavior. He had never once offered to accompany me anywhere that did not serve his reputation. In the past, when I was injured, I would have to beg him to drive me to the clinic or to let one of his soldiers take me. If he agreed, I would be overjoyed for days, pathetically grateful for a crumb of acknowledgment from a man whose empire I had built with my own hands.

But today he offered on his own, and not only did I decline, but I also showed no sign of happiness. The gratitude was gone. It had bled out of me on a clinic table alongside everything else.

Dominic did not know that this afternoon, when I was being chased by that rabid dog along the gravel road behind the compound, I had just left the pharmacy on Prince Street where a test confirmed I was a month pregnant. His child. The only thing I had ever wanted from him that his money and territory could not buy.

When his car passed by, I had only been knocked down and hadn't been bitten yet. If he had gotten out of the car then, if he had so much as told his driver to stop, maybe our child could have been saved.

But there were no ifs. Not in this world. Not in a Family where loyalty ran only one direction.

After he left, I was bitten three times by the rabid dog. The most serious wound needed a circle of stitches because a piece of flesh there was almost torn off. The clinic doctor, a man who asked no questions because he was paid by the Falcone Family not to, had looked at my bloodwork results and then at my face, and I had told him what to do, and he had done it, and that was the end.

"Suit yourself," Dominic said.

Rejected by me for the first time in six years, he was not happy. I could see it in the stillness of his jaw, the way his weight shifted, the fractional pause before he turned away. He was not accustomed to hearing "no" from me. I had been the one constant in his life that never refused, never demanded, never made him feel the cost of his own cruelty. That woman had died this afternoon on a gravel road while his sedan disappeared around the corner.

But as soon as he turned, his phone buzzed in his trouser pocket, and he drew it out with the ease of a man reaching for a glass of wine. I saw the screen illuminate his face. I did not need to read the name. I already knew, the way you know the sound of a door that has been opening behind your back for months.

Seeing the name on the phone, he stopped frowning. The tension left his shoulders. His mouth softened into something I had never been offered, a kind of warmth that existed only in the frequency of another woman's name.

"Since you're injured, I'll sleep in the guest room tonight," he said, already half-turned away, already gone.

I had no objection to this. I had no objection to anything anymore. Objection required hope, and hope required something left inside the chest to break, and I had used the last of mine on a scream he had chosen not to hear.

But as I passed by the guest room door on my way back to my room, walking slowly because the stitches pulled and the cramping had not fully stopped, I heard low laughter coming from inside. His voice through the heavy oak, muffled but unmistakable, carrying the particular softness of a man speaking to someone he wants.

"Okay, this is on me. I'll make it up to you tomorrow."

Dominic's tone was gentle and affectionate, a treatment I had never experienced. Not once. Not on the night I handed him the offshore account structure that saved the Falcone territory from a federal seizure. Not when I sat beside him at inter-family dinners and smiled at men who would have killed me if they knew how much I understood about their finances. Not even in the early days, when I had believed that if I just loved him precisely enough, he would learn to love me back.

In my memory, the only smile Dominic Falcone ever gave me was a mocking one when he was angry, a cold curl of the lip that made his signet ring flash under the light as his hand tightened on whatever he was holding. Other than that, he was always indifferent toward me, the way a man is indifferent toward the foundation beneath his house. Essential, invisible, never thanked.

I stood in the hallway for a long time. The light under the guest room door was warm and gold. My reflection in the dark window at the end of the corridor was a shape I barely recognized, thin and bandaged and very still.

It didn't matter now. I didn't care anymore.

I said those words to myself as I walked the remaining steps to the bedroom, and I pressed my thumb once more to the inside of my wrist, and my pulse answered, steady and alive, and I closed the door behind me without making a sound.

The next morning, I prepared breakfast for one.

Warm milk and a pressed sandwich on sourdough — simple, efficient, sufficient. The kitchen in the penthouse above the Falcone social club was silent except for the low hum of the espresso machine I did not bother to use. Pale light came through the reinforced windows and lay flat across the marble countertop where I set my single plate.

Dominic walked over to the dining table out of habit, already dressed in charcoal wool, cufflinks gleaming, the signet ring catching the overhead light as he reached for his usual place. He found his glass empty.

"Where's mine?" he asked.

I hesitated for a moment. "I thought you didn't like milk."

Dominic didn't respond. He was not happy. The ring on his right hand turned once, slow, deliberate, his thumb rolling it against the knuckle.

He didn't like milk, but in the past, I would always heat a glass for him and insist he drink it, regardless of his preferences. I did it because he had a weak stomach — years of late-night sit-downs, too much espresso, meals skipped in favor of counting-room business — and milk was good for it. Every morning for eight years I had set that glass in front of him like a small act of devotion he never once acknowledged.

Ignoring his stare, I glanced at the day's schedule pinned beneath a magnetized clip on the refrigerator, downed the milk in one gulp, put the dishes in the washer, and moved toward the door. My heels were quiet on the hallway runner, but my pulse wasn't. Behind me, Dominic seemed to say he would take me, but my footsteps were too loud, and I thought I must have misheard.

I rubbed the pad of my thumb once over the inside of my wrist, feeling the small flutter there. A habit I had never been able to break — checking that I was still here, still breathing, still upright when every instinct told me to sit down and weep.

Dominic and I had been together for eight years, working under the same roof of the Falcone organization, yet I took the crowded subway downtown every day. Eight years of keeping the Family's laundering fronts spotless, of making sure every dollar ran clean through the shell companies I had architected, and I still stood on a packed train with strangers who smelled of wet wool and cheap cologne while the Don rode in a black sedan with tinted glass.

Today, because of my injuries — the mauled arm still bandaged beneath my coat sleeve, the deeper wound no bandage could touch — I had arranged for one of the Family cars to collect me half an hour earlier.

Dominic, who was usually punctual, was late. He arrived with his personal courier, Adriana Bellini.

The printer in my office was broken, so I was in the common area of the social club's front office copying documents — shipping manifests dressed up as restaurant supply invoices, the kind of quiet labor that kept federal eyes from ever finding the real numbers underneath.

My colleagues' eyes darted back and forth between the three of us, eagerly waiting for some drama to unfold. Their gossiping hearts had been burning since Adriana arrived at the club months ago, bright-eyed and soft-voiced, a woman who wore fragility like couture.

It was no wonder. Everyone in the organization knew Dominic and I were together. Eight years. A shared penthouse above the club. A child we had been expecting — though that was past tense now, a fact I swallowed like ground glass every time I breathed.

But with Adriana's arrival, they were no longer sure.

Dominic was extremely fond of Adriana. The car that he had reluctantly let me ride in was now Adriana's dedicated ride. The man who was always focused on Family business and maintained a clear hierarchy inside these walls would now share a meal with Adriana at the back booth, take her out during working hours, and attend whatever show or gallery she wanted to see. Compared to me, Adriana seemed more like the Don's woman.

Everyone was waiting for the moment I would explode, but some restraint was ingrained in my bones. I could never make a scene where the men could see. In the past, countless private arguments with Dominic were always silenced by his words: "Don't act like a shrew."

Even after Dominic and Adriana disappeared into the Don's private office at the end of the corridor, the anticipated drama did not occur.

The silence was broken by whispers.

As I walked back to my own office with the documents, I overheard a male associate gossiping about us. He said, "I've told you. Ms. DeLuca is too strong-willed. What man likes that? Adriana is delicate and lovable."

His colleague noticed me and nudged him. Both of them bowed their heads, eyes dropping the way men in this life dropped their eyes when they realized they had spoken too freely.

I kept walking and returned to my office.

I strongly disagreed with being called "strong-willed." At work, my assertiveness reflected my abilities. I could manage these young associates and handle difficult clients — the restaurateurs who laundered without asking questions, the contractors who billed twice and kept quiet. In my personal life, if I were truly strong-willed, I wouldn't have let Dominic treat me this way.

I picked up the resignation letter on my desk and a plastic bag before heading to the Don's office.

Before I even knocked, I heard Adriana's soft sobs through the heavy door.

I pushed it open without hesitation and found Adriana leaning against Dominic, who was gently wiping her tears. A glass of wine sat on the desk beside her, untouched, and in the fraction of a second before they separated I saw it — the tip of one manicured fingernail pressed into the stem of the glass, pressed hard enough that I could almost hear the crystal sing.

They quickly separated, and even Dominic forgot to reprimand me for not knocking.

"Bianca, I…" Adriana stammered, unable to finish her sentence.

Dominic asked her to leave first, afraid I might upset her.

She bit her lip and moved toward the door, every step a performance of wounded grace.

As she passed me, I handed her the plastic bag.

I said, "Ms. Bellini, next time you go to someone else's house, don't be so careless."

Adriana blushed and stuttered, "Thank you, Bianca. I'll be more careful."

Then she rushed out of the office.

Next time?

It was a blatant provocation. Yet people called her pure and innocent. Men really didn't understand women.