“I have to murder Ace first, then I will.”

“Ace is busy.”

“I’ll wait until he’s free.”

I needed a second to collect my thoughts anyway. Not until I’d snuffed out that pretty fire in your eyes. A cold shiver erupted at the base of my spine. What did that mean, exactly?

Distracted, I tried to step around Lorenzo, but he blocked my path again.

“Go upstairs, Gianna.”

Tara’s mischievous look came to mind. With a singsong lilt in my voice, I asked, “What’s in my husband’s office that I’m not supposed to see?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, Lo, I know you can’t help it, but has anyone told you, you’re transparent?” I rolled my eyes and pushed past him.

John stood beside the office door, one hand clasping the other wrist in front of him. He wasn’t Italian, and therefore could never be sworn in as a Made Man, but he’d been a trusted man of my husband’s since I’d met him and would probably always be.

“New hairdo?” I asked, glancing at his bald head. It was an ongoing joke between us.

A small smile came to his lips. “Borrowed some of Lorenzo’s hair gel.”

I could feel Lo’s eyeroll behind me.

“Ah, well, I like it.” I winked.

I grabbed the doorknob, but John’s voice stopped me before I could open it.

“Gianna.”

I looked at him to see a somber expression staring back. At this point, I knew what lay beyond the door, but I was so tired of running from it for the last year. My thoughts reflected in my eyes, and he tipped his chin in understanding.

I opened the door and strolled inside.

She sat on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a textbook open on her lap. When she looked up and saw me, she dropped her pen and stared.

“Hello, Sydney.”

She swallowed. “Gianna.”

“Don’t mind me,” I said, sitting on the couch beside her and grabbing the TV remote. “I’m waiting for Ace. I just need to kill him, and then I’ll be on my way.”

She nodded like she completely understood.

I flicked through the channels, settling on my favorite soap opera, and pulled my legs up beside me.

Sydney’s discomfort wafted from her like a heavy perfume. She shifted in her blue scrubs, and I realized she must have come straight from the hospital. She worked as a phlebotomist to put herself through nursing school. I was surprised she still insisted on working—I knew Antonio wouldn’t hesitate to pay her way.

“Gianna . . .” She hesitated, thick emotion laced through her voice. “I don’t know what to say to tell you how sorry I am for everything.”

Betrayal twisted my heart in a brutal grip.

It was the same thing she’d said in a hundred emails, voicemails, messages, and a couple of personal visits I’d quickly ended. Say something too many times and it becomes meaningless.

“If I could go back and change how things happened—”

“No, no, no,” I muttered, shaking my head at the TV. “Don’t sleep with Chad. He screwed around with Ciara behind your back last week!”

Sydney’s attention went to the TV before frustration heated her cheeks. “I know you, Gianna, and I know you aren’t so indifferent, not to me.”

Bitterness stung my throat. “You do know me. You know more about me than I have ever shared with anyone else. And that is why I can’t forgive you, Sydney.”

I’d taken a few college courses when I married and moved to New York. “It will help you get a feel for the city,” Antonio said. I was in awe of his generosity, the freedom he’d granted me, which I had never experienced before. That was where I met Sydney. I remembered the hours we spent squished together on her dorm room bunk bed, staring at the ceiling and talking about life.

It was the first meaningful friendship I’d ever had. And when it ended, it wasn’t the first time my heart had been ripped out. My chest had felt hollow since I was five years old, and sometimes, where emotions should be, there was only numbness. Some called it depression. I called it life.

“You know what he’s like,” she said softly.

I did know. I knew so well I actually felt sorry for her, but it did nothing to remove the image of him and her together. Or the knowledge they’d been seeing each other for a year now, without any regard to how it would make me feel.

“I didn’t mean for anything to happen. I felt sick about the whole thing—”

“This topic is positively boring,” I sighed. “I know, let’s talk about how my husband is in bed.”

She made a noise of frustration. “Stop doing this. Stop pretending you don’t care.”

“You want some honest emotion from me? Fine.” The words poured from my lips without any sentiment. “I hate you. I hate you for what you did. I hate you for still doing it. And I hate you for acting as though I’m in the wrong here. You’re dead to me, Sydney. Is that enough emotion for you?”

You’re dead to me.

You’re dead to me.

You’re dead to me.

It resounded in the room on an undying loop, like the skipping of a scratched record.

Her face lost all color, and her voice was so quiet it sounded nearly inaudible. “I’m so sorry for what I did to you.”

“So am I,” I whispered, resigned.

Silence reached out to consume us both. It masqueraded as a calm, peaceful entity, but it couldn’t conceal a volatile edge. We sat in that uncomfortable, deceitful silence. It was her punishment. It was just my existence. She worked on her homework with a shaky hand, and I watched my show while trying not to regret the words I’d said. But I did. They already haunted me, and she wasn’t even dead yet.

Fifteen minutes later, Antonio burst into the room with Ace on his heels. They were arguing about something, but as soon as they noticed our presence, they both stopped to stare. I guessed a wife and a mistress sitting side-by-side was a perplexing sight. I aimed to make it more confusing.

I smiled. “Aren’t you going to wish your wife a happy birthday?”

“Jesus,” Ace muttered. “We don’t have time for this right now.”

I shot him a narrowed gaze. “You know what I don’t have time for? You!”

It was an immature response I didn’t think through, as I did have some free time, considering I had no job and not a single responsibility, and that thought was clearly conveyed in Ace’s dry expression.

Father and son stood beside one another. Together, they could double as a brick wall. An unyielding force of nature. Or something someone might pray to.

My husband’s gaze coasted from me to Sydney and, in a twisted, disgusting way, I thought he liked seeing us together.

I hadn’t touched him since last October, since I’d told him I wouldn’t. But he was getting more persuasive as the days went on, and I was beginning to ache for human contact. For hands and lips on my skin; to lose myself in a sheen of sweat and lust. The desire grew stronger every day, and I knew he was only biding his time until it became unbearable. Antonio might smack me around sometimes, but he had never tried to rape me. My guess was that was a sin he’d be too ashamed to confess. Or, more likely, he thought my resistance was a game I was close to losing, and he was going to feel immense satisfaction when he won.