The strangest part of being married to Nicholas DeMarco was how little he demanded from me.
I had expected questions.
Where had I been?
Who had I spoken to?
When would I return?
Instead, Nicholas behaved as if our agreement had been carved into stone.
Every morning, a car waited outside if I wanted it.
Every morning, I ignored it and walked to Whitaker Flowers.
After the third day, I noticed one of Nicholas’s men following half a block behind.
I turned around.
He stopped.
I crossed my arms.
He looked deeply uncomfortable.
“Does your boss think I’m stupid?”
The man’s name was Marco. I had learned that after Nicholas introduced everyone who worked inside the house.
“No, ma’am.”
“Clara.”
“Yes, ma—Clara.”
“Then tell him I know you’re following me.”
Marco glanced toward the traffic like he hoped a bus might run him over and end the conversation.
“He told me not to interfere.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
“Does Nicholas think I’m stupid?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I continued walking.
Marco continued following.
That night Nicholas was in his study when I walked through the open doorway.
“You’re having me followed.”
He looked up from a stack of contracts.
“I am.”
“You agreed not to control where I go.”
“I’m not controlling where you go.”
“You’re sending armed men behind me.”
“One man.”
I stared at him.
He added, “Usually.”
“Nicholas.”
He closed the folder.
“Corsetti knows your shop. He knows your schedule. He has already entered your workplace once.”
“I don’t want somebody breathing down my neck.”
“Then he’ll remain half a block behind.”
“I don’t want to be watched.”
“You won’t be.”
“He’s literally watching me.”
Nicholas leaned back.
“Tell me what you want.”
The question disarmed me.
I had prepared for an argument.
“Someone outside the shop,” I said eventually. “Not inside. And when I leave, they stay far enough back that customers don’t notice.”
“All right.”
“That’s it?”
“You gave me a boundary.”
“And?”
“I intend to respect it.”
I hated how much that answer affected me.
The marriage was supposed to be a shield.
Nothing more.
I reminded myself of that every morning.
Then Nicholas started appearing in pieces of my life where I had not invited him but somehow did not mind finding him.
He learned Rosa made coffee too strong for me, so a smaller pot appeared beside the larger one.
He discovered I worked late every Thursday when floral shipments arrived, and dinner stopped being served at seven on Thursdays.
He never sent roses.
I asked him once why.
We were sitting at opposite ends of the kitchen table.
“Too obvious,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“Anyone can buy roses.”
“And dahlias require a criminal mastermind?”
His mouth twitched.
It disappeared so quickly I almost thought I had imagined it.
“My mother grew dahlias.”
That surprised me.
“You had a mother?”
He gave me a flat look.
“I thought men like you were produced in underground laboratories.”
That did it.
Nicholas laughed.
Only once.
Quietly.
But it changed his entire face.
For the first time, I saw the man beneath the reputation.
And immediately wished I hadn’t.
Because fear was easier.
Fear had clean boundaries.
Curiosity did not.
Two weeks after our wedding, Anthony Corsetti sent his second message.
It arrived inside a funeral arrangement.
Black ribbon.
White lilies.
The arrangement was delivered to Whitaker Flowers shortly before closing.
I recognized it immediately because no florist in Boston would send another florist something that ugly.
Beneath the lilies was a card.
WEDNESDAY CAME AND WENT.
YOUR HUSBAND CANNOT STAND BETWEEN US FOREVER.
I stared at it until my hands went cold.
Then I heard the bell over the shop door.
Nicholas entered alone.
He wore a charcoal coat, rain darkening the shoulders.
“You’re early.”
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
I looked toward my purse.
Three missed calls.
“I was working.”
His eyes moved to the flowers.
He did not touch them.
“May I?”
The fact that he asked nearly broke something inside me.
I handed him the card.
He read it.
Nothing changed in his expression.
That was worse than anger.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“I make sure Anthony understands the terms.”
“What terms?”
“That my wife is not a message board.”
“Nicholas.”
His gaze lifted.
“No bodies.”
A faint muscle moved along his jaw.
“I didn’t say anything about bodies.”
“You didn’t need to.”
He folded the card once.
Then again.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“No bodies.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m adapting to married life.”
Against my will, I smiled.
He saw it.
He did not comment.
That night, nobody disappeared.
No headlines appeared.
No mysterious fires consumed Corsetti businesses.
Instead, three of Corsetti’s largest shipping clients canceled contracts before breakfast.
By noon, a warehouse lease had been terminated.
By five, one of Corsetti’s banks had frozen a line of credit.
I discovered all of that from a customer who worked near the waterfront and loved gossip.
When I got home, Nicholas was chopping garlic in the kitchen.
Boston’s feared Nicholas DeMarco.
With an apron tied around his waist.
“Did you destroy Corsetti’s week because he sent me flowers?”
“They were terrible flowers.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He scraped the garlic into a pan.
“No one was hurt.”
“You promised.”
“Yes.”
“So you attacked his business.”
“He understands business.”
I leaned against the counter.
“You really are terrifying.”
“I have been told.”
Rosa entered, saw Nicholas cooking, muttered something in Italian that sounded deeply insulting, took the knife from his hand, and ordered him out of her kitchen.
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
Nicholas actually obeyed her.
That should have made him less frightening.
It didn’t.
Men who were only cruel were easy to understand.
Nicholas contained contradictions.
Those were more dangerous.
Later that night, I brought the green ledger to his study.
“I want answers.”
He motioned toward the chair across from him.
I sat.
This time by choice.
I placed the ledger on his desk but kept one hand over it.
“Sam wrote D beside dozens of transactions.”
Nicholas nodded.
“Those transactions touched DeMarco companies.”
“So D means you.”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“My father established dozens of holding companies. Some still carry the family name. Sam worked through a subcontractor that handled manifests for three of them.”
“Was he stealing from you?”
“Yes.”
The answer hurt more than I expected.
“Then why aren’t you angry?”
“I was.”
“Was?”
“When he was alive.”
I swallowed.
“You knew?”
“I knew money was disappearing. I didn’t know Sam was responsible until shortly before his death.”
My hand tightened on the ledger.
“How shortly?”
“Five days.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“You knew my brother was stealing from you five days before he died, and you never told me?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I didn’t know you existed!”
“That made asking difficult.”
“Don’t.”
He went silent.
I stood.
“Did you kill him?”
Nicholas did not move.
The question hung between us.
It was the one I had been afraid to ask from the moment I learned his name.
“No.”
“Did you order someone to?”
“No.”
“Can you prove it?”
“No.”
At least he didn’t insult me with a lie.
“Then why should I believe you?”
“You shouldn’t yet.”
Yet.
I hated that word.
Nicholas opened a drawer.
Slowly.
He placed a folded piece of paper on the desk.
“What’s that?”
“Sam asked to meet me the night before he died.”
I stared at him.
“He what?”
“He sent that.”
I unfolded the paper.
Three sentences were written in my brother’s handwriting.
I KNOW WHO IS MOVING THE MONEY.
IT IS BIGGER THAN CORSETTI.
I NEED ONE DAY.
I had to sit back down.
“He was coming to you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I think he had discovered someone was using both organizations.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
My throat burned.
“Then what happened?”
“He never arrived.”
I touched Sam’s handwriting.
The ink blurred behind tears I refused to let fall.
“His crash was the next night.”
“Yes.”
“So someone knew he was talking.”
Nicholas nodded.
“Which means someone knew about this.”
I looked at the ledger.
“Probably.”
“Someone in Corsetti’s organization?”
“Possibly.”
“Or yours.”
The silence answered for him.
My stomach twisted.
“Who knew about the meeting?”
“Three people.”
“Names.”
“Me. Sam.”
“That’s two.”
Nicholas looked toward the closed study door.
Then back at me.
“Salvatore Bellini.”
The name took a moment to register.
“Bellini?”
“Yes.”
“The bakery?”
“His.”
“The building where you met me?”
“His.”
“How long have you known him?”
“My entire life.”
That answer frightened me more than anything else Nicholas had said.
Salvatore Bellini had been at our house twice since the wedding.
Gray-haired.
Elegant.
Warm smile.
He had kissed my cheek the first time we met and told me Nicholas’s mother would have liked me.
He had eaten Rosa’s lasagna at our table.
He had brought pastries to my flower shop.
And now Nicholas was telling me Salvatore had been one of only three people who knew Sam intended to speak to him before he died.
“Do you suspect him?” I whispered.
Nicholas stared at the ledger.
“I don’t know what I suspect anymore.”
That was the first time I saw something inside him that looked almost like fear.
Not fear for himself.
Fear of being wrong about a man he trusted.
I closed the ledger.
“Then we find out.”
His eyes lifted.
“We?”
“You married me because you said my brother’s mistake brought danger to your door.”
“It did.”
“Well, your secrets brought danger to mine.”
A long silence followed.
Then Nicholas nodded.
“Fair.”
That night, I returned to my bedroom.
I locked my door.
But for the first time since moving into the house, I found myself staring at the lock afterward.
Not because I was afraid Nicholas might come through it.
Because part of me was beginning to wonder what it meant that he never tried.