Chapter 2 - THE HUSBAND WHO TURNED PALE
By six that evening, I knew two things.
Marco had found my address.
And Dante Castellano had not forgotten my face.
I knew because Giuseppe stopped me beside the coatroom just as I was tying my apron for dinner service.
“You’re going home.”
I stared at him.
“My shift starts in ten minutes.”
“You’re going home.”
“I need the hours.”
“You’ll be paid.”
That frightened me more.
Giuseppe Romano never gave away money he hadn’t watched someone earn.
“What happened?”
His gaze moved over my shoulder.
Marco stood near the bar.
Same charcoal suit.
Same unreadable expression.
Except now he held a thin manila folder.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
Marco approached.
“Mia—”
“Whatever you found, I don’t want to hear it.”
“That won’t make it disappear.”
“I said no.”
The restaurant doors opened.
Cold February air rolled across the marble entryway.
Then Marcus walked in.
Every part of me locked.
He had changed clothes since morning.
Navy coat.
Gray sweater.
Hair combed neatly.
He looked handsome.
Normal.
The version of my husband strangers always saw.
He even carried flowers.
White roses.
My favorite.
That was the thing about Marcus.
Afterward, there were always flowers.
His eyes found me.
Then Marco.
Then Dante, who had entered silently through the private corridor behind the bar.
Marcus stopped walking.
All the color left his face.
Not because he saw that I had told someone.
I hadn’t.
Because he recognized Dante.
Dante noticed.
His eyes narrowed.
“You know me.”
Marcus recovered quickly.
“Everyone knows you.”
“No.”
Dante stepped closer.
“You know me.”
Marcus tightened his grip around the flowers.
I looked between them.
“What is happening?”
Marcus gave me the smile he used when other people were watching.
“Mia, honey, let’s go home.”
My body reacted before my mind did.
I stepped backward.
Dante saw it.
Marcus saw Dante see it.
His smile disappeared.
“I’m speaking to my wife.”
Dante’s voice remained quiet.
“And she moved away from you.”
“That’s none of your concern.”
Marcus looked at me.
“Get your coat.”
I hated that my hands immediately wanted to obey.
Two years of learning the cost of hesitation did not vanish because another man stood nearby.
I reached toward the coatroom.
Dante said, “Mia.”
I stopped.
Not because he ordered me.
Because his voice sounded different from Marcus’s.
No warning.
No punishment inside it.
Just my name.
He looked at me.
“Do you want to leave with him?”
Such a simple question.
Nobody had asked me that in years.
Marcus laughed.
“She’s my wife.”
Dante did not look at him.
He kept looking at me.
“That wasn’t the question.”
My throat closed.
Marcus’s jaw hardened.
“Mia.”
There it was.
The warning.
Soft.
Controlled.
I stared at the roses.
Three hours earlier, I would have gone home.
I would have apologized for embarrassing him.
I would have cooked dinner quietly and waited to discover which version of Marcus walked through the bedroom door.
Then Marco put the folder on the bar.
A photograph slid partly free.
Marcus saw it.
And panicked.
He moved faster than I had ever seen him move sober.
He grabbed for the folder.
Marco caught his wrist.
Marcus twisted.
Marco barely moved.
Dante’s expression changed.
“What is in that file?”
Marcus looked at me.
For the first time, his fear was not about losing control of me.
It was about something else.
“Mia, we need to leave.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Now.”
“What is in the folder?”
“Nothing.”
Marco pulled out the photograph.
It showed Marcus standing beside a black sedan in a warehouse district.
The timestamp was eleven months earlier.
Beside him stood a man I recognized.
Not personally.
From newspapers.
Anthony Castellano.
Dante’s uncle.
He had disappeared eight months ago.
The official story was that he had fled the country after a federal investigation.
Dante stared at the picture.
“You told my people you had never met Anthony.”
Marcus’s mouth tightened.
I turned toward him.
“When did Dante’s people question you?”
Marcus ignored me.
Dante did not.
“Three months ago.”
My skin went cold.
“Why?”
“Because your husband’s name appeared in financial records connected to my uncle.”
I looked at Marcus.
“You work in commercial insurance.”
His eyes flicked toward me.
“I do.”
“Then what is this?”
“Mia—”
“No.”
My voice shook.
But I said it again.
“No.”
The word felt strange.
Powerful and terrifying.
“Answer me.”
Marcus’s face hardened in the familiar way.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He reached for my arm.
Dante moved.
He did not hit him.
He simply stepped between us.
Marcus froze.
Dante looked down at his hand.
“If you touch her,” he said quietly, “make sure it is because she asked you to.”
Marcus laughed nervously.
“You think you’re some kind of hero?”
“No.”
Dante’s eyes were cold.
“I know exactly what I am.”
That answer unsettled everyone.
Including me.
He turned to Marco.
“Show her.”
Marco opened the folder.
Bank records.
Photographs.
Security stills.
One showed Marcus entering the Castellano-owned Pier 41 warehouse.
Another showed him carrying a red leather ledger.
Another showed Anthony Castellano beside him.
The last photograph was different.
Marcus stood outside our apartment building.
Talking to a man in a dark coat.
The date was yesterday.
I looked closer.
The man had a scar beneath his left ear.
Dante went still.
“Who is that?”
Marcus said nothing.
Marco answered.
“Victor Hale.”
Dante’s face became blank.
Giuseppe muttered something under his breath.
I looked between them.
“Who is Victor Hale?”
Dante’s voice changed.
“He killed my brother.”
The restaurant seemed to lose all sound.
Marcus looked at me.
Not lovingly.
Not angrily.
Desperately.
“Mia, listen to me.”
“You met with him yesterday?”
“There’s an explanation.”
“You came home afterward.”
My voice broke.
Yesterday.
Marcus had arrived at ten.
He had been drinking.
He accused me of embarrassing him because dinner was cold.
Then—
I touched my swollen cheek.
His expression collapsed.
For the first time, he understood what I was remembering.
“Mia.”
“You met the man who murdered Dante’s brother.”
“It isn’t what you think.”
“And then you came home and did this to me.”
His eyes filled.
That almost made it worse.
“I lost control.”
I laughed.
A terrible sound.
“You keep calling it that like control is something you dropped under the couch.”
Giuseppe looked away.
Marcus whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I had heard those words before.
Usually with flowers nearby.
Dante’s gaze went to the white roses in Marcus’s hand.
Then back to me.
“Do you have somewhere safe tonight?”
I nodded automatically.
Then stopped.
No.
My sister lived in Boston.
My parents were gone.
Everyone I knew in New York knew Marcus.
Or knew where I worked.
“I can find somewhere.”
Dante said, “Good.”
That surprised me.
He did not say come with me.
Did not decide.
Instead he turned to Giuseppe.
“Your apartment upstairs?”
Giuseppe nodded.
“Empty since my nephew moved out.”
Dante looked at me again.
“You choose.”
Marcus stared.
“You’re letting her stay here?”
Giuseppe stepped forward.
“She works for me.”
“She is my wife.”
Giuseppe’s face hardened.
“She is a person before she is anything to you.”
Marcus’s jaw clenched.
Then he looked at me.
“Mia, if you stay here tonight, you are ending our marriage.”
A week earlier, those words would have terrified me.
That night, something inside me went strangely calm.
“No.”
Marcus frowned.
“You ended it before sunrise.”
Silence.
He flinched.
Then anger returned.
Dante saw it.
So did Marco.
Marcus stepped backward.
His eyes moved to the photographs.
“You don’t understand Anthony.”
Dante’s voice became cold.
“Then explain him.”
Marcus laughed bitterly.
“Your uncle wasn’t stealing from you.”
Dante’s expression changed.
“He was hiding money from Victor.”
“Why?”
Marcus looked at me.
As if deciding whether to destroy something.
Then he said it.
“Because Victor wasn’t after the Castellanos.”
A beat.
“He was after Mia.”
My stomach dropped.
Dante’s eyes snapped toward me.
May you like
Marcus swallowed.
“And he still is.”
