Chapter 3 - The Empty Chair
The Italian bistro on 4th Street had been intimate, smelling of roasted garlic, aged parmesan, and woodsmoke. I had reserved the corner table two weeks in advance.
""He's running a few minutes late, ma'am,"" Luca’s driver, Marco, had assured me through the phone at seven o’clock. ""A sit-down in Brooklyn ran over. He told me he's wrapping up now.""
""Thank you, Marco. Tell him I'm waiting.""
I sat with my spine pressed stiffly against the cushioned booth, fighting the blinding waves of pain throbbing through my lower back. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer striking the puncture sites on my hips. But I smiled at the waiter, ordered a bottle of 2015 Barolo—Luca's favorite vintage—and waited.
Eight o'clock came and went. The waiter lit a fresh candle at my table. Couples around me laughed, sharing plates of handmade pasta, clinking wine glasses in warm toasts. I took small sips of water, fighting the dizziness that kept threatening to swallow me whole. My hemoglobin was plummeting, my body screaming for sleep, but I held onto the promise of that blue dress.
At nine o'clock, the restaurant’s owner personally delivered a small, complementary plate of bruschetta, giving me a look of deep, unmistakable pity. That pity stung worse than the surgical wounds.
I pulled out my phone. My screen showed zero missed calls. Zero text messages.
I dialed Luca's personal number—the private satellite line reserved strictly for his inner circle and me. It rang three times before clicking over to an automated tone. He had rejected the call.
A few minutes later, Marco called back, his voice fraught with nervous hesitation. ""Mrs. Ferraro... the boss has been pulled into an urgent matter at the docks. Someone intercepted a cargo container. He won't be able to make it. Should I bring the car to the front of the restaurant?""
I closed my eyes, a single, silent tear trailing down my cheek, hot against my freezing skin.
""Is he safe?"" I asked, hating myself for caring.
""He's unharmed, ma'am. But he won't be home tonight.""
""I understand. Don't worry about the car, Marco. I have some errands nearby. I'll take a cab.""
""Mrs. Ferraro, it's pouring rain and freezing outside, let me—""
""Goodnight, Marco.""
I hung up, paid the hefty bill in cash, and left a hundred-dollar tip for the staff who had pretended not to notice my humiliation. When I pushed open the glass doors of the restaurant, the icy November rain hit me like a slap.
A taxi was an easy option. There were cabs lining the avenue. But the sheer weight of my foolishness crushed every ounce of pride I had left. I had starved myself of affection for eleven months, chasing breadcrumbs from a man who didn't even care enough to send a two-word text on my birthday. I wanted the cold. I wanted the physical sting of the rain to drown out the pathetic ache in my chest.
Step by step, I trudged through the downpour.
By the eighth block, my cheap heels gave out. I took them off, walking barefoot through the freezing slush. My vision began to blur into streaks of neon and black. My breath came in shallow, wheezing gasps. The punctures in my hips flared with hot, sickening agony, the blood seeping through the sterile gauze bandages beneath my dress.
Just make it to the gates, I told myself. Just make it through the door, and then you can disappear.
When the wrought-iron gates of the Ferraro estate finally loomed through the darkness, I was barely human. The guards recognized me, frantically opening the gates, but I waved them away, staggering up the long, curving driveway alone.
May you like
I pulled open the massive mahogany front doors. The warmth of the foyer hit me like a wall of fire. I reached for the marble balustrade, lifting one trembling foot toward the first step.
Then my vision fractured into shards of black glass.
