Page 47 of The Mafioso’s Bride

“Stop searching the stations and hotels. She isn’t leaving Chicago.”

“How certain are you?” he asks.

“She didn’t take the notebook.”

“I don’t follow,” he says.

“It contains work she intends to finish. She left the card and stuffed tardigrade, but kept the blue shirt. She packed for separation, not disappearance.”

The answer stops every other calculation. Separation. She plans to release me from a marriage she believes I never wanted. Her father repeated that lie until she accepted it, and my silence gave it room.

The silver pin presses against my coat when I lean toward the driver. Eight blunt legs surround an inaccurate mouth. Giada bought it after I told her the card had no spending limit. She used less than one hundred dollars. When Giada could buy anything, she included me.

Giada told me most tardigrades need a thin film of water around them to move and feed. Moss holds moisture between its leaves. A Chicago winter offers frozen ground and dormant plants, but the city contains one vast building kept warm and wet through January.

Chicago in January offers cold, wind, traffic, and strangers. Giada would choose none of those. She would choose warmth, quiet, plants, moss, and water.

“Garfield Park Conservatory,” I tell the driver.

The car turns at the next intersection. “Mattia, send everyone away from the conservatory.”

“We haven’t sent anyone there,” Mattia says.

“Keep it that way.”

“You’re going alone?” he asks.

“Men followed my orders around her, so she left. I won’t surround her again.”

I end the call. Traffic stalls behind a delivery truck. I get out. The driver calls after me, but I close the door and move past the line of cars.

Snow catches at my collar and melts beneath it. My shoes slip once on the curb. I keep moving. The conservatory rises beyond the white ground, its glass roof dull beneath the winter sky.

Warm, wet air closes around me inside the entrance. Moisture settles on my face and coat.

Visitors move between beds of green plants. Water runs nearby. A child complains about the heat. His mother leads him toward the coat room.

I choose the first path with moss growing beside it.

The Palm House opens above me in green layers. Broad leaves overlap against the glass roof. Ferns cover the ground beneath taller plants. Water beads on every surface.

I pass two empty benches. The next room holds stone paths, orchids, a pool, and no Giada.

I move faster. My wet soles strike the floor. A visitor steps aside. Another points toward a sign I ignore.

Then blue shows through a break in the ferns. Giada sits on a bench near a low stone wall. Her gray coat lies folded beside her. The blue tardigrade on her shirt smiles across the room with its inaccurate mouth. Her suitcase stands near her shoes.

She bends over a patch of moss, close enough to examine the water gathered between its leaves. My knees buckle, and I catch myself against the stone wall. She is here, warm, unhurt, and alone. I walk toward her.

Her head turns when my shoes reach the stone path beside the bench. Her gaze moves to the silver pin on my lapel, then my face.

“You found me.”

“Yes.” I stop beyond her reach.

“I left the phone.”

“You did.” I remain where I am.