The Billionaire Mafia Boss Said He Would Not Care If His Wife Left That Night Until Her Silent Disappearance Exposed the One Betrayal His Empire Could Not Survive

The sun was rising over Manhattan, painting the sky in shades of bruised gold and slate gray when Clare and Adrien stepped out onto the private balcony of the forty-third-floor penthouse.

The city below them was waking up, oblivious to the war that had been fought and won in the dark corners of the boroughs.

Clare wore a silk robe instead of her thrift-store coat. Her hair was loose over her shoulders. In her hand, she held a warm ceramic mug of black coffee.

Adrien stood behind her, his arms wrapped securely around her waist, his chin resting against her shoulder as he watched the skyline burn with the morning light.

On the kitchen island inside, the bakery box from Hartley’s still sat beside the grocery receipt with its smeared ink. I miss you. I think you have forgotten that I am allowed to.

Adrien had taped the receipt inside the front cover of the master ledger downstairs, right beneath her signature.

“We need to talk about the guest room,” Clare said quietly, taking a sip of her coffee.

“What about it?”

“It needs to be painted. The blue wallpaper is depressing.”

Adrien tightened his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. “Paint it whatever color you want, Clare. Buy the cans. Hire the contractors. Do whatever you like.”

“And on Thursdays?” she asked, a faint, teasing smile touching the corners of her lips. “Am I allowed to expect you home for dinner?”