Chapter 2

If I'd known from birth how this story ended, I never would have gone near him.

But I only woke up now.

Twenty-five years had carved Renato into my bones. I loved him. Genuinely. And somewhere underneath everything, I believed he loved me too, just not the way I loved him.

Finding out this late that I wasn't his destination, just a rest stop along the way, wasn't tragedy. It was a bad joke, and it was happening to me.

The housekeeper's voice broke through my thoughts.

"Donna, what would you like for lunch? I'll have it prepared."

I considered for a moment. "Make whatever the Don likes. I'll bring it to the club."

Renato ran most of his business from his office there. We needed to talk.

The housekeeper left, and I drifted, my hand settling unconsciously over my stomach.

There was a child in there. Ours.

In the original story, Gianna loses the baby. During a group outing, Renato gets pressured by his men into singing a duet with Noemi, a love song, of course.

Gianna walks in on it, loses her temper, goes for Noemi's hair and raises her hand to slap her.

Renato shoves Gianna away hard enough that she miscarries.

After that, her hatred becomes absolute.

Out of guilt, Renato transferred Noemi to the warehouse department, far away from his sight.

But that whole arc was designed for Noemi. The loss, the exile to the warehouse department, the reconciliation that follows: all of it built to make their reunion more affecting.

The thought sent a dull ache through my stomach. I pressed my fist against it.

I didn't believe the book had to be the end of the story.

Twenty-five years. His child inside me. I believed I could change the ending.

Don't let me down, Renato.

At eleven, the housekeeper brought the lunch box to me with a smile.

"Donna, you two are the most devoted couple I know. People envy you."

I nodded and said nothing, thinking: God, I hope you're right.

I drove to the club and walked straight to Renato's office. On the way past the bar, I scanned for Noemi. She wasn't there.

A bad feeling settled in my chest.

I pushed open the office door. And stopped.

Renato and Noemi were sitting side by side at the big mahogany desk, close enough to touch. On the desk between them was a little dog-shaped lunch box, the kind you'd buy at a market stall. Pasta bolognese inside, from the look of it.

Noemi was laughing, head tilted down, bright and unguarded.

Renato was watching her the way you watch something that delights you.

Then he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out his pocket square, the one I'd chosen for him, the one I'd picked to complement that exact suit, and gently wiped the corner of her mouth.

Damn, it looked like a painting.

I let out a short, cold laugh.

They both turned. Renato froze, still leaning toward her, his hand still raised, his eyes locked onto me like he'd been bolted in place.

The absurdity of it made me laugh for real.

Renato recovered in a second, his expression shutting down into something dark and guarded. I looked at the pocket square in his hand, raised an eyebrow, and said nothing.

My gaze drifted towards Noemi.

Noemi scrambled to her feet. Too fast: her hand clipped the lunch box, her heel caught on something, and she went down hard, the entire contents of the pasta box landing on her lap.

Renato was at her side before the box stopped rolling. He helped her up, started cleaning her off.

I tightened my grip on my own lunch box, turned around, and walked out.

I had too much dignity for that hysterical farce in the original story.

I turned right at the end of the hall and found Luca, the warehouse manager, in his office.

He stood when he saw me. "Donna. You wanted to see me?"

I sat down in his chair and opened my lunch box.

I was actually hungry. I'd been running on nerves since morning, and I was eating for two now.

Luca stood to the side, watching me eat with a completely baffled expression.

When I'd finished, I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and said, casually: "I know about your arrangement with the South American suppliers. Wait for my call. We'll talk."

He nodded, confused and alarmed in equal measure.

Renato found me a minute later.

"Gianna, what are you doing? Why are you having lunch in here?"

"You're allowed to eat with the bartender, but I can't eat with a man?"

Renato's head snapped toward Luca. Luca looked like he was considering the merits of kneeling. Renato studied him for a long moment, apparently decided he wasn't a threat, and said flatly: "Don't cause a scene. We'll talk at home."

I stood, dropped the used napkin in the empty lunch box, and pushed it toward Renato.

"Clean that up."

I walked past him without a second glance.

He stood there, staring after me like he'd never seen me before. Because he hadn't, not like this. I'd always been soft with him, patient, accommodating, endlessly warm.

Because I'd loved him.

There was no point in that anymore.

After all, the blood of the Milano family ran through my veins.

My father was Ricardo Milano, the Don of the Milano family. He had always taught me an eye for an eye.