My new apartment overlooked the river.
It was smaller than the mansion.
Quieter.
Normal.
I loved it immediately.
Enzo’s security hated it.
There were two men in the hallway, another downstairs, and a black SUV parked across the street at all times.
Apparently independence came with armed accessories.
Three days passed.
Enzo did not call.
That surprised me.
I had expected commands.
Arguments.
Maybe anger.
Instead, he gave me the one thing he had never managed to give gracefully.
Space.
Dante called on the fourth day.
I almost didn’t answer.
Then curiosity won.
“What?”
“You always answer the phone like that?”
“When you’re calling, yes.”
He laughed.
“I deserved that.”
“You deserve several things.”
“Probably.”
“What do you want?”
“To warn you.”
My irritation disappeared.
“About what?”
“Someone is watching your building.”
I went still.
“My security would know.”
“Your security works for Enzo.”
“And?”
“And whoever killed Marco Bell probably knew his routines too.”
I walked toward the window but stopped before getting close.
“Who do you think it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t comforting.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
I lowered my voice.
“Why are you helping me?”
A pause.
“Because your father helped me once.”
I frowned.
“When?”
“When I was eighteen.”
He told me a story I had never heard.
Dante had gotten himself into trouble with his father.
Serious trouble.
My father had hidden him for two nights and arranged safe passage out of Chicago.
“That’s why you left?”
“Yes.”
“Why would my father help you?”
“Because he hated what our fathers were becoming.”
Our fathers.
Plural.
I remembered the photograph.
Trust the son, not fathers.
“What were they becoming?”
“Men who thought power mattered more than loyalty.”
A knock sounded at my door.
I froze.
“Someone’s here.”
“Don’t open it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
I checked the security screen.
Enzo stood outside.
Of course.
I ended the call.
When I opened the door, he looked exhausted.
There was a cut above his eyebrow.
My stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That is clearly not nothing.”
He stepped inside.
His eyes moved around the room, checking windows and exits before settling on me.
“You need to come back.”
“No.”
“Arya.”
“I’ve been here four days.”
“And someone followed your car today.”
My skin chilled.
“Dante just told me someone was watching the building.”
Enzo’s expression became dangerous.
“You spoke to Dante?”
“That’s what you heard?”
“Yes.”
I crossed my arms.
“He called.”
“You answered.”
“I’m an adult.”
“He used you to provoke me.”
“And you used our entire marriage to fool your enemies. Neither of you is currently winning husband of the year.”
His mouth tightened.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He stepped closer.
“Whoever killed Marco Bell is moving faster.”
“What happened?”
“Two accounts were emptied this morning. One safe house was compromised.”
“Inside job?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I studied him.
The cut above his eyebrow bothered me.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Enzo.”
Something in my tone must have surprised him.
He sat.
I brought a small first-aid kit from the bathroom.
When I stood between his knees and touched a cotton pad gently to the cut, he became completely still.
It hit me then.
I had rarely touched him either.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because eventually I had learned to mirror his distance.
His eyes followed my face.
“You’re staring.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I can.”
My hand stopped.
Three years of restraint sat between us.
I finished cleaning the cut.
His fingers rose slowly, as if asking permission without words.
He touched my wrist.
Barely.
I should have stepped away.
I didn’t.
“Arya.”
The way he said my name sounded different.
Not like a command.
Like confession.
“What?”
“I don’t know how to do this.”
I looked at him.
“Do what?”
“Love someone without trying to control every danger around them.”
My anger softened, but it didn’t disappear.
“Then learn.”
His thumb moved once against my wrist.
“I’m trying.”
“That doesn’t erase what happened.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
A faint, tired smile appeared.
“What should I say?”
“The truth.”
His expression became serious.
“The truth is I hated every night I slept beside you and didn’t touch you.”
My breath caught.
“The truth is I knew when you cooked for me.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“I came home after you went upstairs.”
“You stayed downtown until sunrise.”
“I sat in the kitchen at four in the morning eating cold rosemary chicken.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
“You idiot.”
“Yes.”
“You could have come home for dinner.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying—”
“I know.”
I laughed then.
A real laugh.
The first we had shared in years.
Enzo looked at me like he had discovered something precious.
Then his phone rang.
The moment shattered.
He answered.
His face changed.
“Where?”
He stood.
I stepped back.
“What happened?”
He ended the call.
“Dante was attacked.”
My stomach dropped.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Northwestern.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
He corrected himself immediately.
“I would prefer you didn’t.”
“That was almost progress.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m still coming.”
Twenty minutes later, we were at the hospital.
Dante had been shot in the shoulder.
Nothing life-threatening.
His father, Matteo Russo, stood outside the room.
I had met him only twice.
He looked older than Enzo, broader, silver at the temples, with the kind of expression that made ordinary people reconsider eye contact.
When he saw me, something strange passed across his face.
“Thomas’s daughter.”
My father.
“You knew him well.”
“Once.”
“What happened?”
His gaze moved toward Enzo.
“Ask your husband.”
Enzo became still.
I looked between them.
“What does that mean?”
Matteo smiled bitterly.
“Enzo never told you why your father died?”
The hallway seemed to tilt.
I stared at my husband.
“My father had a heart attack.”
Nobody spoke.
That silence answered before words did.
I looked at Enzo.
“No.”
“Arya—”
“No.”
Matteo continued, almost cruelly.
“Your father died the night he tried to expose men inside both our organizations.”
Enzo stepped toward him.
“Shut up.”
I backed away.
“You knew?”
Enzo’s face had gone pale.
“I knew there were questions.”
“Did you know he didn’t die naturally?”
“I suspected.”
“For three years?”
“Arya.”
I couldn’t breathe.
I turned and walked.
Enzo followed.
I spun on him near the elevators.
“You let me mourn a lie.”
“I didn’t have proof.”
“You had suspicion.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I was trying to protect—”
“Don’t.”
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped inside.
He followed.
“Don’t say protect me again.”
His face broke.
For once, I didn’t care.
Because suddenly our marriage wasn’t the only thing built on silence.
My father’s death was too.
And when the elevator doors opened downstairs, I made a decision that would change everything.
I wasn’t going back to Enzo’s mansion.
I wasn’t going back to my apartment.
I was going to find the truth myself.
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