Chapter 2

At the family meeting the next day, I finished my report on the previous night's incident at the casino.

What could have turned into a full-blown shootout, I'd shut down. No gunfire. No blood.

It was the cleanest job I'd handled since becoming a Moretti.

Dante knew that.

Then, without warning, Dante shoved the ledger across the table and lit a cigar.

"This is what happens when you let a woman get involved in the business."

"Just because nothing blew up doesn't mean she did the right thing. Letting my wife clean up my mess sends a message to Chicago: that Dante Moretti can't even hold his own turf."

He never once looked at me.

In a room of more than twenty men, all I could hear was my own breathing.

"A woman should learn how to be a good wife—not give orders on behalf of her man. Elena, you need to understand that."

"As for the one with the loose mouth—she'll learn her lesson."

He was telling everyone I'd overstepped, and that someone would pay for my presumption.

I knew then—this meeting had no place for me anymore.

I walked out of the study and found Grace, the old housemaid, in a corner of the garden.

She was crying so quietly she barely dared breathe.

Last night, when the casino called the estate, Dante hadn't been home. So she'd knocked on my door.

She wasn't yet fifty. Her husband was dead. She was raising a son in school on her own, and taking care of a sick mother. An extra ten dollars a month could break her.

With a single word, Dante could destroy her life.

"Grace, I'll handle last night. You go home. Spend time with your mother."

I handed her a tissue and tried to keep my voice light.

Grace looked up, eyes red-rimmed.

"Donna, you were the one who fixed it last night. Why would the Don—"

"Don't." I gave her a small smile. "Go on home."

After Grace left, I stood there for a long time.

I didn't want to go back to the estate and face Dante, so I went to my mother's.

The living room was full of flowers—lilies, their scent sharp enough to sting.

Mom was sitting on the edge of the couch, clutching a tissue. Her nose was red, her eyes swollen.

"Where did all these come from?"

"Dante ordered them for me. Twice a week." Her smile was thin. "They're beautiful, aren't they? You've always loved flowers."

"I'm fine. Don't stir up trouble with Dante over a few bouquets. I'm fine."

My hands slowly clenched.

The last time she'd had a reaction, it was because Dante had filled the house with lilies.

She'd toughed it out until she couldn't breathe, and had to be rushed to the ER by 911. Four days in the hospital.

I'd told Dante. He said he'd remember.

Turns out the way he "remembered" was to have flowers delivered twice a week.

I looked down. Every bouquet had the same little card attached: Mia's Blooms.

The audacity.

Dante didn't remember that my mother had nearly died from a pollen allergy.

But he remembered to send business Mia's way.

I threw every one of the bouquets out.

That evening, I got back to the estate, pushed open the door—and stopped dead.

The whole house was full of flowers.

The foyer, the dining table, beside the fireplace—everywhere, the white lilies I hated most.

I looked out at the garden. The rose bushes I'd planted with my own hands had been ripped out. In the freshly turned soil, rows upon rows of white lilies stood at attention.

Dante came out of his study, his expression uncharacteristically soft.

"Do you like it? You said you wanted to wake up to flowers every day."

I had said that.

But I'd never imagined every bouquet would come from his other wife.

My fingertips started to go numb.

He'd torn out the flowers I'd planted myself, and filled my home with Mia's favorite bloom.

He'd turned me into his other wife's biggest customer—and I was supposed to thank him for the romance.

"What is it? You don't like them?"

Dante crossed to me and slid an arm around my waist.

He bent to kiss me. In my head, a single image flashed—

The vine-covered archway. The rose window. The old piano.

Mia's voice, smiling: "My husband drew this for me himself."

My stomach heaved.

I shoved Dante off and clapped a hand over my mouth as I bolted for the bathroom.

I threw up until I was crying.

Dante followed me in and handed me a warm towel.

"Bad food?"

I shook my head, bracing myself against the sink, gasping. The face in the mirror was ghost-white.

He frowned. Then something seemed to occur to him, and his gaze dropped.

"Elena—are you pregnant?"