I had a plan. I had evidence. I had a daughter who would carry the Ferraro name.
That would have to be enough.
Dante didn't come home that night.
Instead, his name lit up my phone screen at quarter past eleven. A single text:
'Hey Olivia, I'm working late tonight and crashing at the club. It's getting cold and rainy, so don't forget to close the window before bed. Love you always, your husband.'
I read the message without feeling anything.
The phone sat in my palm, its glow the only light in the bedroom. Rain streaked the tall windows of the Moretti brownstone, and somewhere beyond the property wall, a car engine idled. One of the soldiers on the night rotation. Always watching. Always there. A house full of surveillance and not a single person who saw what was actually happening inside it.
In the past, I would have worried. I would have replied. I would have stayed awake with the lamp on and the covers pulled back on his side, waiting for the sound of his key in the lock, telling myself that a man who remembered to remind you about the window still loved you. I would have typed back something soft. Something trusting. Something stupid.
Now, I didn't even bother to respond.