Anthony Corsetti disappeared before dawn.
That was the bad news.
The good news was that he did not disappear far.
Sam’s spreadsheets had mapped enough of Corsetti’s shell companies that investigators froze several accounts within hours of Salvatore’s arrest.
Salvatore, suddenly facing the possibility of spending the rest of his life in prison, discovered that loyalty to Corsetti was not as sacred as he once claimed.
He started talking.
Not immediately.
Men like Salvatore needed to believe silence made them powerful.
Then his lawyer showed him the recordings.
The financial evidence.
The photographs.
The security footage.
The confession inside my flower shop.
By the third day, he was giving investigators names.
By the fifth, Corsetti was arrested at a private airfield in New Hampshire before boarding a chartered plane.
I learned from the television.
Nicholas and I were eating breakfast.
The news anchor said Corsetti faced a long list of federal charges involving financial crimes, smuggling, conspiracy, and obstruction.
Salvatore Bellini had been charged separately.
The investigation into Sam’s death had officially reopened.
I placed my coffee down.
“Is that it?”
Nicholas looked at the television.
“For Corsetti?”
“For us.”
He understood immediately.
The marriage.
The agreement.
The reason I had become Clara DeMarco.
Corsetti was no longer a threat.
Salvatore was in custody.
The evidence had been duplicated and secured.
The men who had entered Whitaker Flowers and threatened me would have to be suicidal to approach me now.
Our bargain was complete.
Nicholas turned off the television.
“You said when Corsetti was no longer a threat, you would sign whatever my lawyer put in front of you.”
“Yes.”
He did not hesitate.
“I remember.”
Something painful moved through me.
I had imagined this moment hundreds of times.
During the first night behind the locked bedroom door.
During the first breakfast tray.
During every evening I had wondered whether I had traded one prison for another.
Freedom had been the finish line.
Now that it had arrived, I felt strangely lost.
“I called a lawyer,” I said.
Nicholas’s face revealed nothing.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Good.”
The word hurt.
Ridiculous.
I had asked for this.
“He can prepare everything this week.”
“I’ll sign it.”
“That easily?”
His eyes met mine.
“What would you prefer? A fight?”
“No.”
“Then yes. That easily.”
I stood.
Nicholas stayed seated.
I wanted him to say something.
Anything.
Ask me to stay.
Tell me the marriage had become real to him.
Break one rule.
Just once.
Instead he honored the first promise he had ever made me.
And somehow that hurt more.
I moved back into my apartment above Whitaker Flowers two days later.
Nicholas carried my suitcase downstairs.
Just as he had carried it upstairs on my first day.
At the front door, he handed me the handle.
“That’s it?” I asked.
He looked confused.
“What else?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
Neither did he.
I hated that.
So I became angry because anger was easier.
“You’re very good at endings.”
His jaw tightened.
“Clara.”
“No, forget it.”
I took the suitcase.
“Thank you for keeping your word.”
His expression changed.
“Always.”
That nearly destroyed me.
I left.
The first night in my apartment, I discovered silence could be louder than fear.
Nobody walked downstairs at midnight.
Nobody argued with Rosa about how much garlic belonged in tomato sauce.
No newspaper rustled at the kitchen table.
No one left a white dahlia outside my door.
I told myself that was freedom.
On the third morning, I threw a coffee mug into the sink hard enough to break it.
Then I cried because Nicholas would have quietly bought the same mug and pretended it had always been there.
Aunt Margaret came down from Vermont.
She took one look at me.
“You love him.”
“I do not.”
“Wonderful. Then the miserable face must be allergies.”
“I married him because people were trying to kill me.”
“Yes.”
“He’s a criminal.”
“Yes.”
“He’s difficult.”
“Yes.”
“He is emotionally constipated.”
“Probably.”
“Aunt Margaret.”
She sat across from me.
“Sweetheart, I am not telling you who to love. I am telling you your face does something every time his name comes up.”
“What?”
“Looks like your mother’s whenever your father came home late.”
That was unfair.
My parents had adored each other.
I looked away.
Margaret reached across the table.
“Do you feel safe with him?”
I thought about that.
“Yes.”
“Does he control you?”
“No.”
“Has he hurt you?”
“No.”
“Do you trust him?”
That answer came more slowly.
“Yes.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
I laughed bitterly.
“Everything.”
“Better answer.”
The divorce papers arrived on Friday.
Nicholas had already signed them.
Every page.
No changes.
No conditions.
He had also waived any claim to property.
There was an additional document transferring the townhouse security contract protecting Whitaker Flowers into a trust that would pay for it for five years.
I called him immediately.
He answered after one ring.
“You cannot keep paying my security.”
“I can.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
“This feels like an obligation.”
“It is.”
“I don’t want obligation.”
Silence.
Then Nicholas said, “Fine.”
That surprised me.
“You’ll cancel it?”
“Yes.”
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I felt worse.
“Nicholas.”
“Yes?”
“Do you want this divorce?”
A long silence.
Then, “That’s not relevant.”
“It’s extremely relevant.”
“You wanted the right to leave.”
“I know.”
“I promised not to stand in your way.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then answer me.”
His voice changed.
Lower.
Rougher.
“No.”
My heart stopped.
“No, you don’t want it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you signing?”
“Because loving someone does not turn their choices into mine.”
I sat down.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally I whispered, “You love me?”
Another silence.
Nicholas DeMarco could apparently negotiate shipping contracts worth millions while men threatened his life, but three words nearly defeated him.
“Yes.”
I laughed through sudden tears.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Very romantic.”
“I wasn’t planning it.”
“That makes two of us.”
He exhaled.
“Clara.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t owe me anything because of that.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to come back.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
That was why I loved him.
Not because he had power.
Not because people feared him.
Not because he had protected me.
Because when he finally had something to lose, he still refused to take my choice away.
I looked at the signed papers.
“Come to the flower shop.”
“When?”
“Now.”
He arrived eleven minutes later.
I know because I watched the clock.
Nicholas entered wearing a black coat and the expression of a man expecting bad news.
The little bell jingled.
For a moment, we simply looked at each other.
Then I walked around the counter.
“I’m not signing these today.”
He stayed very still.
“Why?”
“I need time.”
“You can have as much as you want.”
“I’m not asking permission.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not moving back into your house.”
“Fine.”
“I want to date you.”
That broke him.
Not visibly enough for anyone else.
But I knew Nicholas now.
His eyes widened slightly.
“You want to what?”
“Date.”
“We’re married.”
“Technically.”
“That seems backward.”
“Our entire relationship is backward.”
He considered that.
“Fair.”
“I want dinner.”
“We had dinner every night.”
“Not with four armed men downstairs.”
“Two.”
“Nicholas.”
“Sorry.”
I smiled.
“I want to know what food you actually like. I want to know why you hate jazz. I want to know why you have a scar beside your thumb.”
“Kitchen knife.”
“You told me a man attacked you.”
“He did.”
“With a kitchen knife?”
“No. I lied because the truth was embarrassing.”
I stared at him.
“How old were you?”
“Eleven.”
I laughed.
He almost smiled.
“This is exactly what I mean.”
He stepped closer.
Still not touching me.
“What happens if dating goes badly?”
“Then we sign.”
“And if it goes well?”
I looked at him.
“Then maybe one day we stop pretending our courthouse wedding was the beginning.”
Nicholas’s voice softened.
“What would the beginning be?”
I reached behind the counter.
Pulled one white dahlia from a bucket.
And handed it to him.
“This.”