There was one time the fever took me to forty degrees, and I could not keep my legs beneath me. Half-blind with the heat of it, I dragged myself through the marble corridors of the estate until I found Lorenzo, and I asked him, only asked, to have one of the soldiers drive me to a doctor. But there were made men within earshot, capos he had to keep in awe of him, and a Don does not carry his sickly wife through his own halls where the ranks can see it. He shook my hand off his sleeve as though it were something soiled and told me, low and even, to send word through the household and let them handle it.

Yet let Gia press a hand to her belly and whisper that her stomach ached, and Lorenzo would rise from a council of his own capos, leave men who had waited a week for his ear, and drive her himself to be looked over by the family physician as if her breath were the last in the world.

I followed Lorenzo into the study.

Gia had been settled behind the folding screen at the far end to rest, tucked away like something precious. With the room emptied of witnesses, he crossed the obsidian floor to me and took my hand in both of his, his voice dropping into that deep register he used when he wanted to be believed. "Are you still angry?"

I drew my hand free. My tone came out flat, distant, borrowed from somewhere colder than I felt. "I told you. I'm not angry."

He set his hand on my shoulder, and his gaze pressed into me the way the grandfather clock in the corner pressed its ticking into the silence, insistent, filling every gap. "Still being stubborn? You didn't call me once last night. Not a single word carried to me, and you have the nerve to stand there and say you're not angry."

I was thrown by that, honestly thrown, and I heard myself answer, "But Gia was with you. She's your runner. Of course she'd see you were taken care of."

Something flared behind his eyes, that heat that never once warmed me, and his fingers closed hard on my shoulder. Pain shot down my arm. I twisted to break loose from him, and in the struggle he shoved me back and I went down onto the leather sofa, the cold of it biting through my dress.

Pushing myself upright, I felt something snag beneath my palm. Without thinking I pulled at it, and out of the crease of the cushion came a scrap of pink lace. A woman's bra.

The anger drained from Lorenzo's face in a single breath. "This is…"

I had no appetite for whatever explanation he was already assembling behind those still lips. I dropped the lace back into the seam of the sofa where I'd found it and said, lightly, as though I were addressing an associate and not the man I'd bound my blood to, "If there's nothing else, I'll be going now, Don Falcone."

After the day's business, I was gathering myself to meet an allied boss when Lorenzo's car rolled to a slow, deliberate stop in front of me at the curb, the marked plate everyone in the territory knew catching the light. My thumb was turning the bare place on my finger where the ring used to sit; I did not remember starting.

"Get in," he said through the lowered window. "I'll see Gia home first, and then I'll take you to the seafood house on Maple Road."

Gia leaned across from the passenger seat, her smile bright and easy, the smile of a woman who had never once been made to wait in a corridor with a fever. "Sorry, Adriana. Hitching a ride off you again."

I was already lifting a hand for a passing cab, and I answered without looking back at either of them. "You two go on. Seafood doesn't agree with me."

Lorenzo's face went dark on the instant. He knew, better than anyone alive, that no shellfish had ever disagreed with me a day in my life. That house on Maple Road, the low light and the salt and the cracked shells, had been one of the few pleasures I let myself keep.

His jaw set, and I could see him gathering something to say, some quiet correction to put me back in my place before the god-sister he paraded like a jewel. But I didn't give him my eyes again. I stopped turning the bare place on my finger, and stepped clear of his marked car, and crossed to the far side of the road, and got into a taxi that owed him nothing.

I hadn't expected Lorenzo to follow me to the restaurant with Gia trailing at his heel like a shadow he'd chosen to keep. The private room at the back of the club was set for a sit-down. Don Barone hadn't yet arrived, the head of the table still empty, and the two of them slid into the leather banquette across from me as though they'd been invited, as though this were their table and I the intruder.

For a long moment I said nothing. The candle between us threw its small light against the dark paneling, and I felt the old, familiar cold settle into my chest, the kind that came whenever Lorenzo made a decision that cost me and never noticed the price. My thumb found the bare skin where a ring should have sat, and I turned that empty finger once, slowly, before I caught myself doing it and went still.

Perplexed, and past the point of pretending otherwise, I said it plainly. "I have a sit-down arranged with Don Barone. This meeting is mine."

Lorenzo raised one dark brow. He was rolling the heavy signet ring around his finger, unhurried, the gold catching the candlelight. "Has Don Barone ever once said he didn't wish to see me?"

I fell silent. I did not push them out any further. Whatever I had become to him behind closed doors, in this world he was still the Don, and the room, the club, the very air we breathed all belonged to the Falcone name. To move against him here, before an allied boss, would have been to spit on the hierarchy that fed us all. So I swallowed it. I had grown very good at swallowing things.

When Don Barone finally arrived, the room seemed to draw itself upright around him. He was an old-blooded man, careful, the sort who measured a family's worth by the wine it poured and the silences it kept. He settled at the head of the table and, with a small gesture, instructed his own man to open a bottle he'd brought himself, something dark and expensive that breathed like smoke when the cork came free.

I frowned, and the memory rose unbidden, the way it always did when I least wanted it. The day I had gone to schedule the procedure after the accident. The physician's hands folded on the desk. His voice low and certain as he'd confirmed it with me again, and again, refusing to let me pretend I hadn't heard. After the miscarriage from the car, cara, your body was already damaged. That you carry again now is nothing short of a miracle. If you lose this one too, there may never be another chance. Do you understand me? Never.

I pressed my lips together. The glass was already being filled at my place, the wine bleeding red into crystal, and I gathered the words to decline it gently, to find some soft lie the table would accept without insult to our host.

Then Gia spoke.

She leaned forward with that bright, guileless smile she wore like borrowed silk, one hand drifting to rest against the flat of her stomach in a gesture she thought looked tender. "Oh, I've heard people say Adriana holds her wine better than any man at the table. Today I finally get to see it for myself!" Her eyes shone with a girl's admiration, wide and innocent and utterly, deliberately empty.

I looked at her without warmth. "Who told you that?"

Her smile froze on her face. The color of it drained just slightly, and her gaze cut sideways to Lorenzo, seeking the hand that always caught her when she fell. "Did I... did I say something wrong again?"

He reached over and smoothed her hair, the way a man gentles a favored animal, before he turned to me. And when he turned to me his face had gone to stone, the affection stripped clean off it. His voice dropped into that cold register I knew the shape of by heart, the one he saved for when he meant to make me small in front of company.

"Adriana. It's one glass of wine." A pause, weighted, the signet ring turning once more. "You're not a frightened girl anymore. Stop being so shy."

Something inside me went to ice.

I held his cold gaze across the candle. Around us the room had gone quiet in that particular way rooms do when men who deal in silence sense a fault line opening beneath the table. Don Barone's soldier stilled with the bottle in his hand. The old man himself watched with hooded, patient eyes, saying nothing, missing nothing.

My thumb pressed against my empty finger. I felt the ghost of the ring I no longer wore, the vow I had kept for five years in a marriage no one at this table knew existed, the years I had spent brokering the alliances that built his empire from the shadows so that he could sit here and command me to drink poison for the sake of his pride.

I stopped turning my finger. The halt of it was a small, final thing, and only I knew what it meant.

I forced my mouth into the shape of a smile. And I said it, word for word, slow and clear enough that not one man at the table could later claim he hadn't heard.

"Don Falcone. I can't drink." A breath. "Because I'm carrying a child."

The room froze.

Even the candle seemed to hold its flame still. Don Barone did not move. His soldier did not pour. For one long, ringing heartbeat the only sound was the faint tick of my own pulse in my ears, and I watched the words land on Lorenzo's face and saw something move there that he could not fully hide, some flicker fast as a struck match, gone before I could name it.

Gia recovered first. She always did. The shock behind her eyes was there and then folded neatly away, and she rose to her feet with a rush of warmth, lifting her glass toward me. "Congratulations, Adriana! Oh, congratulations, truly!"

She brought the rim toward her lips.

Lorenzo's hand shot out and caught her wrist before the wine could touch her mouth. "Gia. You're pregnant too. You can't drink." His voice had softened for her, gone protective, urgent in a way it had not been for me in years.

And for once, the girl did not obey.

She pressed her lips together, and her free hand fluttered up to her stomach again, too quick this time, cradling nothing. "No. I want to drink." Her eyes glistened, wet and wide, sweeping the table to be sure the room was watching. "Ever since I came to Duskmire, I've done nothing but make trouble for you without meaning to. I've hurt you, Adriana, and I never wanted to." She lifted the glass higher, her voice trembling on the edge of tears. "So let this one be my apology. Please. Let me drink to you."

She grew flushed with her own performance, tossing her head back the way a girl does when she wants the whole table to watch, and drained the glass in a single greedy swallow. An instant later her brow crumpled. She began to cough, hard and wet, her cheeks staining crimson, tears standing bright along her lashes as though the wine had wounded her.

The private room went very still. Don Barone, who had been rolling a mouthful of the vintage across his tongue with the patience of a man weighing an alliance, set his glass down on the white cloth and did not lift it again. He folded his hands. The silence that followed was the kind that costs money.

Lorenzo watched Gia with that softness he never once spent on me, his whole face tilting toward her hurt like a plant toward light. His heart, I could see, was breaking cleanly down the middle for her. Then he came out of his chair all at once, the legs shrieking against the marble, and leveled a finger at me across the candles.

“Are you satisfied now?” His voice cracked the hush like a knuckle across a jaw. “Only someone as pure as Gia would ever trust a word out of your mouth. If anything happens to the child in her belly, I will never forgive you. Never.”

There it was. The word child, spoken aloud in front of an allied boss, before the sit-down my own hands had spent three months building. I felt Don Barone's verdict settle over the room without a syllable, the way a lid settles over a pot. Under the table, my thumb found the bare groove on my finger where a ring used to sit, and turned the empty skin around and around. Five years of that band. Five years of pouring my blood into the channels that made his name mean something in three territories, and he could not spend a single ounce of trust on me while a stranger's daughter drowned a room in fake tears.

I lifted my eyelids slowly, lazily, the way you look at weather you've already decided to walk out into. “Do as you please,” I said. Indifferent. Flat as still water.

I turned to Don Barone and gave him the apology the breach demanded, low and correct, the only respect left standing at that table. Then I turned to go.

Lorenzo's voice came after me, sharp enough to draw blood. “Adriana.” My name in his mouth was a blade he'd kept sheathed for years and only now bothered to unsheathe in company. “I have swallowed you for a long time. A long time. In your eyes everything Gia does is a crime. If you truly cannot bear the sight of her, then why don't we simply dissolve this?”

Dissolve this. The word hung in the leather-and-tobacco air like smoke that wouldn't clear.

I confess the surprise moved through me first, a cold little jolt beneath the ribs. Then, close behind it, something that felt almost like relief unclenching a fist I'd held shut for years. Five years of marriage. Five years of a blood-bound union kept off every ledger, hidden from every soldier who kissed his ring, so that I held all the weight of a wife and none of the name. He had never once let the Family know I existed at his side. And now, only now, only to force me small in front of Gia, he had reached for the truth himself and flung it on the table like a card he was tired of holding.

I looked at his handsome face, twisted ugly with a rage that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with an audience. My thumb was still turning that phantom ring. Then it stopped. It went completely still against my bare finger, and in that stillness the thing I had been circling for months landed, whole and final and quiet.

I nodded, slow and deliberate, so there could be no mistaking it. “Fine. Let's dissolve it.”

I walked out of the private room without looking back. I did not give him my face to read.

Out on the street the night was cold and the neon lay in oily ribbons across the wet pavement. I took out my phone with a hand that did not shake and called the Consigliere who handled such things, the quiet man who unstitched blood-marriages when there was leverage enough to make the impossible move. He answered on the second ring. I had begun to speak, my voice steady, businesslike, already stepping into the rest of my life.

A light bloomed white and enormous into my eyes.

An engine roared where no engine should have been, and a car came out of the dark straight at me, headlights swelling, unstoppable, a wall of metal with all its weight thrown forward. Fear took me whole in a single wave, a flood of it that turned my legs to water. I went down backward, my palms scraping stone, the phone spinning from my grip. In the last half-second before the grille closed the distance, the driver stamped the brakes. Tires screamed. The car wrenched hard to the side, so close the wind of it snatched my hair, and then it was gone, red taillights bleeding away down the street, leaving me sitting on the cold ground with my heart slamming against the walls of me.

A girl hurrying past saw me and came running, crouching to slip an arm around my waist and help me up. The instant her hand pressed there, she recoiled and screamed. “Oh my God. Oh my God, why are you bleeding so much?”

I looked down, uncomprehending, and saw the dark pool spreading beneath me, black in the neon, soaking through and through, more of it than seemed possible to belong to one body.

At the hospital the doctor's mouth was moving, telling me to contact my family, to call someone, anyone who was mine. I lay on the gurney and gripped the phone they'd recovered from the pavement, and my gaze snagged on Lorenzo's number, the way a torn thread snags on a nail. It hung there. Then I dialed the Consigliere instead.

Because I remembered, with a clarity that would never leave me as long as I lived, that the car which had come out of the dark to run me down carried the Don's own marked plate. The car we had chosen together. The one every soldier in the territory knew on sight.