Chapter 4 - The Night He Came Home
I did not call Dante.
Not immediately.
I spent twenty minutes staring at the reservation history as though the dates might rearrange themselves into something kinder.
They didn't.
The anniversary reservation had been canceled at 4:38 P.M.
Dante had arrived home at 6:12 with white roses and a bottle of wine.
I remembered the evening clearly.
He'd looked almost nervous.
We'd eaten on the terrace.
He'd asked questions about the hotel.
Real questions.
He'd listened.
Later, he'd pulled me into the kitchen and danced with me while some old Italian song played from his phone.
It had been our best evening in months.
Perhaps years.
Now every memory had a shadow.
Had Bianca canceled?
Had Dante?
Had something happened between them?
I hated that betrayal made even happiness require investigation.
At 9:06 P.M., someone knocked on the apartment door.
I knew before looking.
Dante.
I opened it but blocked the doorway.
“You said you wouldn't come.”
“I said I would give you space.”
“This looks remarkably like not doing that.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
He held up his phone.
“The hotel sent me a fraud alert.”
Of course.
The household card.
My access to the reservation had probably triggered something in his financial security system.
“I found the booking history.”
Dante went still.
“The four stays?”
His expression answered before he did.
“Yes.”
“And the anniversary?”
He looked down the hallway.
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
He nodded.
Fair.
I crossed my arms.
“Why did you cancel?”
Dante's eyes returned to mine.
“Because I couldn't do it.”
“Couldn't do what?”
“Spend our anniversary with her.”
“Yet you could spend other nights with her.”
“Yes.”
The honesty was brutal.
I appreciated it anyway.
“Did Bianca know it was our anniversary?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her why you canceled?”
“No.”
“What did you say?”
“Business.”
I laughed softly.
“That word worked very hard for you.”
His face tightened.
“I went home because it was our anniversary.”
“Out of guilt?”
“At first.”
That hurt.
“At first?”
“I bought the flowers because I felt guilty.”
He swallowed.
“But when you opened the door…”
His voice changed.
“You were wearing that green dress.”
I remembered.
“You smiled like you were genuinely happy I was there.”
My throat tightened.
“And I realized I had spent months telling myself we were already gone because it made what I was doing easier.”
Dante looked at the carpet.
“That night, I understood we weren't.”
“Then why didn't you end it?”
He had no immediate answer.
When it came, it was quieter.
“Because understanding something and having the courage to act on it turned out to be different things.”
I looked at him for a long time.
“You went back to Bianca.”
“Yes.”
“How soon?”
“Eleven days.”
The precision hurt.
“Thank you.”
He looked surprised.
“For what?”
“For not saying you don't remember.”
Dante's eyes closed briefly.
“I remember everything now.”
I believed him.
Guilt apparently possessed excellent recall.
Before I could respond, the elevator doors opened.
Bianca stepped out.
Both of us stared.
She held no expensive handbag this time.
No bracelet.
Just a coat around her shoulders and an envelope in her hand.
“I asked downstairs where Mrs. Moretti was staying.”
My brows rose.
“They shouldn't have told you.”
“They didn't. Your assistant called you, and you didn't answer, so she brought me up.”
Of course Emily did.
Dante's face hardened.
“Bianca, go home.”
She looked at him.
“No.”
Something about hearing that word twice in one day seemed to disorient him.
Bianca turned to me.
“I need to show you something.”
I stepped aside.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
Dante's voice sharpened.
“Bianca.”
She ignored him.
That almost impressed me.
Inside, she placed the envelope on the kitchen counter.
“I went home after the hotel.”
I waited.
“I packed his things.”
I glanced at Dante.
He said nothing.
“He had a drawer,” Bianca said. “Some shirts. A watch. A charger.”
My stomach tightened, but I nodded.
“I found this under them.”
She handed me the envelope.
Inside were photographs.
Not intimate ones.
Me.
Leaving the hotel.
Entering a restaurant.
Walking with Nora.
Sitting alone in Millennium Park.
Photographs taken from a distance.
My skin went cold.
“What is this?”
Bianca shook her head.
“I don't know.”
I looked at Dante.
His face had changed.
Not guilt.
Alarm.
“Where exactly did you find these?”
“In the bottom drawer.”
“Were they yours?”
“No.”
Dante took one photograph without asking.
His eyes moved over it.
Then another.
“Bella, I didn't take these.”
I stared at him.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Today is not an excellent day for your credibility.”
“I know.”
He studied the images.
His expression became colder.
“Look at the dates.”
I did.
The earliest photograph had been taken nearly one year before.
Before Bianca.
Before, as far as I knew, our marriage had begun seriously unraveling.
One showed me entering my fertility clinic.
Another showed me leaving my mother's apartment.
Another showed me sitting in my car outside the hotel.
Bianca whispered, “I thought maybe he was keeping track of you.”
Dante looked up sharply.
“I wasn't.”
“How did they get into your drawer?”
“I don't know.”
I examined the envelope.
No address.
No name.
Then I noticed something written faintly inside the flap.
Three letters.
V.M.C.
Dante saw them too.
All the color left his face.
“What?”
He said nothing.
“Dante.”
He picked up the envelope.
“Those initials belong to a company.”
“What company?”
“One my father used years ago.”
“For what?”
His silence told me I wouldn't like the answer.
I waited.
Dante finally looked at me.
“Private investigations.”
My stomach dropped.
“Your father had me followed?”
“He's been dead five years.”
“Then who still uses the company?”
Dante's jaw tightened.
“My sister.”
Sofia.
May you like
The woman who had learned about our separation before I had even decided whether there was one.
And suddenly the affair was no longer the only secret inside the Moretti family.
