The next morning, I made breakfast for both of us, the way I always had. Eggs the way he liked them. Coffee strong enough to strip paint, the way every man in this world seemed to need it. I finished eating my portion and was reaching for my coat when he came out of the study.
He was on his phone. He didn't look up. His silver lighter sat motionless in his free hand, pinched between thumb and forefinger, not rolling. Just still.
"Take the day off," he said, in the voice he used to issue orders to his Capos. "By five o'clock, I need you to make me an identical fondant cake."
Every year since Dominic Sloane had taken me into his world, I'd baked his birthday cake by hand. Seven years of flour-dusted countertops and buttercream under my nails, seven years of fondant smoothed with fingers that knew his preferences better than he did.
When I glanced at the screen of his phone, I knew right then who it was for again.
That little cartoon avatar. Penelope Vitale's profile picture, bright and girlish against the cold glass of a phone that rarely lit up for me.