Chapter 5 - The Terms of Surrender
The revolver felt incredibly heavy between us. Adrien didn't force it from my grip. He simply waited, his gray eyes steady, his heart beating a slow, rhythmic counterpoint against the metal barrel pressed into his chest.
Slowly, my fingers uncoiled. The gun dropped to my side, and I stepped back, my shoulders dropping in complete exhaustion. I walked over to the small kitchen counter, leaning my weight against the old wood, refusing to look at him.
"Why are you here, Adrien?" I asked, my voice barely louder than the wind outside. "You have your empire. You have your captains. You told everyone in that ballroom that you wouldn't miss a single step if I walked out. Go back to New York."
Adrien didn't follow me into the kitchen space. He stayed by the armchair, his hands sliding slowly into the pockets of his coat. "I said those words because Thomas Greer was looking for a crack in my foundation, Clare. The Morettis had just put a bounty on my head two days before the gala. If my inner circle thought I was soft—if they thought my wife was my blind spot—they would have used you to pull me down."
"So you used me to protect your pride instead," I said, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.
"I used the rules I was taught since I was a boy," he said quietly. "A Romano does not show weakness. A Romano does not admit that his world depends on anyone outside his blood. But when I went back to the penthouse that night... when I saw your rings sitting on that marble vanity... I realized the foundation wasn't cracked, Clare. It was completely gone."
He walked over to the kitchen entrance, stopping just short of the linoleum line. He looked at the paper bag containing Eleanor’s brioche, then at the small, calloused red marks on my knuckles.
"I am not a good man, Clare," he whispered. "You knew that when you married me. You knew where the money came from, and you knew what my last name carried. But I never lied to you about what you were to me. I just didn't have the vocabulary to say it in front of men who would use it as a knife."
"I don't care about your vocabulary anymore, Adrien," I said, finally turning to face him. The space between us felt wider than the highway from New York to Maine. "For three years, I was your ornament. I was the beautiful woman who stood beside you while you signed your deals and managed your executions. I don't want to be an ornament anymore. I like the smell of the flour. I like the twelve dollars an hour. It’s clean. Nobody dies for it."
Adrien reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small, heavy piece of parchment—the legal deed to the Fifth Avenue penthouse. He placed it flat on the counter beside my bread bag.
"The penthouse is in your name now," he said. "Clean title. No Romano corporate ties. The money from the Milan real estate sale—six million dollars—has been moved into your grandmother’s account. It’s un-linked. It’s yours."
I stared at the paper, my jaw tightening. "You think you can buy me back?"
"No," Adrien said, his voice dropping into a low, raw register that made my throat tighten. "I am leaving the papers here because if you choose to stay in this town, I want to know that the winter doesn't hurt you. I am going back to New York tonight, Clare. The Moretti situation needs to be finalized, and the federal task force is closing the grand jury deposition on Monday."
He turned toward the front door, his heavy cashmere coat brushing against the narrow wall of the hallway. He paused with his hand on the brass doorknob, looking back over his shoulder through the dim light of the kitchen.
"I won't send Marcus," he said softly. "I won't send scouts. But if you ever decide that life doesn't go on without the shadow... the car will be waiting at the pier every Friday at midnight."
The door opened, letting in a swirl of freezing sea air and the roar of the Atlantic, before closing with a soft, definitive click.
May you like
I was alone again.
I walked over to the counter, picked up the property deed, and held it against my chest. The paper was cold, but beneath it, my heart was beating fast, a dangerous, terrifying rhythm that sounded exactly like a beginning.
