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"I'm upset," Constantine says, "because for seven years I've been occasionally driving to a hospital car park at odd hours for a man who told me never to question him, and Thursday night that woman walked into your garden and I watched you stand up."

Constantine is handsome, and lean, but as far as I know he doesn’t have a girlfriend. He’s noticed that I never stand up for anyone before.

"Everyone stood up," I say. "We all heard the shouting and I needed a better angle, to make sure I didn’t miss anything."

He arched an eyebrow. "The woman stormed into the garden with no fear, and that rarely happens." He throws the core into my fire, which he also knows I hate. "You stood to your feet though before she even said a word."

His gaze feels like it’s drilling into my soul.

"Are you going to tell me?" he asks.

"Eventually."

He nods once and lets it go. He won't push. Pushing was never his way. He’s leaving me all the room in the world to answer or not. That’s the thing though. Rafe I can lie to all day. Tomek I can frighten into quitting with a word. Constantine just sits in my chair eating my fruit and lets the silence settle, because I can’t fool him. He can tell when something's changed in me. He just can't tell what.

Still, I’m not going to tell him yet.

"Everyone stood up," I say again.

"Mmm." He reaches for a second apple, not looking at me now, which is how I know he isn't finished. "You don't say eventually about nothing."

I don't take the bait. I could dodge him all night, so instead I give him the smallest true thing I have, something easy to swallow.

"Dolores has declared war on me, apparently." When she's angry with me she stops taking my orders. She might have raised me but today, I am pissed. She has been picking up after me since I was in diapers and has never once let me off the hook when she thinks I misbehave. Today is not going to be the exception. "Maybe she should be your housekeeper."

Constantine lets me have that one and adds, "You’ve been out of your damn mind. Besides, she laid a place for the woman. Thursday night, in front of everyone—plate, glass, napkin—and she walked out of the garden without sitting down." He stands, apple in hand. "It’s a personal offence. It's still there, Laszlo. She won't let anyone clear it. She's making bigos tonight. The punishment is bigos, and she's bloody Italian."

"I'll speak to her."

"You'll grovel to her, or we're all eating cabbage until the wedding."

* * *

Feldman arrives at two with two associates and his phone in hand, which he sets to record on my desk. He looks at me until I nod. The attorney has taken care of my legitimate paperwork for eleven years and has never once asked a question that wasn't relevant. That's why he still has my business—that and the fact he’s efficient.

"A prenuptial agreement," he says, "and a private contract of terms. Term of marriage, one year from the ceremony."

"Correct."

"Division of assets at dissolution?"

"She keeps whatever I've given her."

"And in the event of your death?"

"She gets everything."

The young associate stops typing. They all seem confused by this and I don’t know what the issue is. It’s my wishes that matter, after all, not their opinions. In this line of work, they must have heard it all.

"Everything," Feldman says.

"Everything. Ahead of my father, ahead of the family. If I die on the wedding night, she's the richest widow in New York by breakfast." I think about it. "Some people would call that a motive. Add a clause—if I die violently, the estate holds until it's cleared up. I won't have her inconvenienced."

"So you don't want your widow inconvenienced," Feldman says slowly, "by everyone assuming she killed you for the money."

"Now you've got it."

He writes for a while.