Chapter 3

"Phone. ID. Now."

Dante held out his palm like a man collecting a debt.

"You're joking," I said.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" His voice cracked across the suite.

"Streets are crawling with people who want you dead, and you want to run around?"

"I never said I wanted to run around."

"You were thinking it!"

He didn't wait for an answer.

He dug the phone out of my coat, snatched my passport from the pocket.

"My phone. I need to make a call."

"To who?"

"To my husband."

He laughed.

"There it is," he said. "The husband."

"Where does he live? What's his name? What does the man do for a living?"

"Give me the phone and ask him yourself."

His eyes went to my left hand, to the plain silver band on it.

His mouth flattened.

"Somebody put a hit on your car," he said. "Somebody who knew your route, your schedule, and the day you visit your mother's grave. Until I know who sold you, you don't call anyone."

I looked at him.

"This is detention."

"This is protection."

He walked out. In the hall the bolt turned, and a second lock after it, heavier. I heard him tell two of his men to take the door in four-hour shifts and keep their radios low, because I needed my sleep.

Always so careful with me. That was the part that made my skin crawl.

Next afternoon one of his men caught him in the hall.

I heard the report through the door.

No man matching my description on any borough record.

No marriage license. My name came up empty.

The voice dropped. Then Dante laughed, loud, for the whole house.

"Told you," he said. "It's an act. Every bit of it."

For the rest of that day I gave him nothing to work with.

They brought food; I ate it. Sal's pills at the hour printed on the packet.

The dressing changed. Lights out at ten.

Dante came in every morning and every night to watch me.

He wanted the plate against the wall. He wanted tears, or a fight, or a reason to sit on the bed and tell me it was all fine.

I handed him a clean plate, folded napkins, and said good night, Dante.

He hated that.

The shadow under my door stayed a long time before it moved.

Then he knocked, which he never did, and came in with a black velvet box.

"I've been thinking," he said.

He opened the box. The stone sat up in the light and threw white lines across the ceiling.

"Bigger than the last one," he said. "Twice the price. Rosetti building, tomorrow night, seven o'clock, two hundred guests. The same priest who married my cousin." He lifted the ring out. "Elena. We do it right this time."

"No."

He smiled like I'd said yes.

Then he set the box on the nightstand.

At nine the planners came with binders and fabric squares.

I sent them back down the stairs.

At ten, two of his men carried in a rack of white dresses; I had it carried out.

Noon, a tray of jewelry.

Three o'clock, a cake tasting I refused to attend.

By six the hallway held everything I had turned away, and he sent a second rack, and a second tray, and a jeweler with a case of loose stones.

I moved the boxes off the nightstand and left them in the hall.

At seven he came back, picked up the velvet box, and put it on the nightstand again.

"Nine in the morning," he said. "Someone will come do your hair. Wear the white one with the long sleeves. It covers the bandage."

"No."

He crouched in front of me, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on him.

"Three years ago you ran off.." He still thought that. "You're still mine, Elena. Say yes, and by tomorrow night the whole city knows it."

I laughed at him, out loud, and that stopped him cold.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," I said.

"Warn me?" He stood and buttoned his jacket. "Walk away from this, and you're the one who spends the rest of her life regretting it."

"Nine o'clock, Elena. Wear the white."

I wasn't worried about the next part.

That night, Dante's phone started screaming.

"What do you mean, fire inspectors?" He spun in a circle. "Which warehouse? All three? At midnight? Who signed that order?"

"Tax? Why would the IRS care about a loading dock?" His voice rose. "And the Staten Island channel is frozen? Frozen by who!"

He called his Underboss. I could hear the other man's voice through the speaker, flat and cold.

"Don't make trouble, Dante."

"Sir, I'm being hit from every side, somebody is..."

The line went dead.

Dante stared at the phone. Then he threw it. It hit the wall and shattered, and a piece of black plastic rolled to my foot.

"Somebody's doing this to me!" he shouted. He pointed at me with a shaking finger. "You. Is this you? Who did you call?"

"You have my phone in your drawer," I said.

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

I picked up the piece of plastic and set it on the table. "I'd get some sleep, Dante."