The glass stops halfway to my mouth.
“She has a what?”
“A little boy. Such a sweet child. She’s a wonderful mother.” Mrs. Santoro is still smiling, oblivious to the way the room is crumbling around us.
A son.
Mina has a son.
Another man’s child. Another man touched her, held her, was inside her—
“How nice for Mina.” The words come out hoarse. I curl my fingers around the edge of the table. “What’s the boy’s name?”
“Leon.”
Leon. It’s perfect. I picture Mina with a dark-haired boy in her arms, smiling as she receives kisses from a faceless man. A beautiful, happy little family. The last five years stood still for me, but Mina ran toward them with open arms. She built a life without me.
“It’s late.” I stand, moving in a daze, wishing I’d never asked. The chair scrapes against the floor. “Thank you for the water, Mrs. Santoro.”
“Of course, Mr. Montoni. Sleep well.”
I walk out of the kitchen. Up the stairs. Down the hall to my room. I close the door behind me and stand in the darkness, my hand still on the knob.
For five weeks I told myself I wasn’t here for her. That she was incidental. That I had no hope left to lose. But there was an ember buried somewhere beneath the ash.
She has a son.
She let another man—
I press my forehead against the door and struggle to breathe through the tightness in my chest. I have no right to feel this suffocating jealousy. I put fear in her eyes, and she moved on.
But she was mine. She wasmine.
Now she belongs to someone else, and I don’t even know where she lives.
My eyes snap open.
I shouldn’t.
I can’t.
I pull out my phone and dial Nico.
He answers on the second ring. “Boss?”
I stare at the door, jaw tight, willing myself to hang up.
“Boss?” he asks again, louder this time. “Are you there?”
“Have my housekeeper, Mrs. Santoro, followed,” I order. “I want to know everywhere she goes.”
2
Mina
Rain drums against the bus windows, and the city glitters beyond the glass. Streetlights are haloed in gold, brake lights bleed red across wet asphalt, and neon signs from the mini-marts are smeared into streaks of pink and green. The bus is packed and steaming with damp bodies and the smell of wet wool. A woman near the back is arguing with someone on her phone. A baby fusses. The driver swears at a taxi.
I flex my fingers in my lap, trying to work out the throbbing.
