TAKE A PICTURE OF US, DIANE. I WANT TO REMEMBER THE NIGHT HE FINALLY CHOSE ME.” THE MAFIA BOSS'S MISTRESS HANDED HIS WIFE A PHONE IN THEIR OWN LIVING ROOM—BUT WHEN HER HUSBAND PUT HIS ARM AROUND THE YOUNGER WOMAN, HIS WIFE ASKED HIM TO DO ONE LAST THING

“Daniel,” I said, my voice shaking. “Why is my dead father’s rosary in your coat pocket?”

Daniel stepped into the hallway. When he saw the silver beads dangling from my fingers, the blood drained entirely from his face.

He lunged forward. “Give me that.”

I stepped back, closing my fist around the cross. “Where did you get this?”

“Susan, give it to me. Now.” The dangerous, quiet tone of the mafia boss was back.

“You opened his casket,” I whispered, horrified. “Why? Why would you disturb my father?”

Victoria appeared in the doorway behind him, looking confused. “Daniel? What is she talking about?”

“Stay out of this, Vic,” he snapped, never taking his eyes off me. “Susan. You are upset. You are confused. Give me the beads and go to the penthouse. We will talk tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to your penthouse,” I said. I shoved the rosary into my own coat pocket, grabbed my purse, and gripped my wedding portrait under my arm. “I’m going to Emily’s.”

Daniel blocked the front door. “No. Leave our daughter out of this.”

“She’s twenty-eight years old, Daniel. She needs to know her father is evicting her mother.”

“Susan, do not go to Emily’s house.” His voice was suddenly pleading, desperate. “Please. Go to a hotel. I will pay for the Four Seasons. Just... do not go to Emily.”

I stared at him. The fear in his eyes wasn't just panic. It was terror.

I didn't answer. I pushed past him, threw open the heavy oak door, and walked out into the freezing Chicago night.

I drove for forty minutes, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ached. The silver rosary felt like a lead weight in my pocket. Why would Daniel desecrate my father’s grave? What was he looking for?

Emily lived in a quiet suburb. I parked in her driveway, leaving the wedding portrait in the passenger seat, and ran to the porch. I hammered on the door.

A minute later, the porch light flicked on. The door opened.

Emily stood there in her robe. She looked exactly like I had at her age. Dark hair, tired eyes, holding a mug of tea.

“Mom?” she said. She didn't look surprised.

“Emily,” I breathed, pushing inside out of the cold. “I need to stay here tonight. Your father… he’s leaving me. For a younger woman. He transferred the house to her.”

I waited for the shock. I waited for my daughter to gasp, to hug me, to call her father and demand answers.

Emily just closed the door, looked at the floor, and set her tea down on the console table.

“I know,” she said softly.

The warmth of the house vanished.

“You know?” I repeated. “You know he’s having an affair?”

Emily rubbed her arms. “Mom. Victoria is thirty-three. I’m twenty-eight. We run in the same circles. I’ve known for a year.”

I felt the floor drop out beneath me. A year. My own daughter.

“You watched me cook him dinner,” I said, my voice breaking. “You sat at our table on Thanksgiving while he texted her. And you said nothing.”

“I wanted to!” Emily cried, tears finally spilling over. “Mom, I wanted to tell you. But I couldn't.”

“Why? To protect him?”

“No!” She looked up, her eyes wide with a fear that perfectly mirrored her father’s. “To protect me.”

I froze. “What do you mean?”

Emily walked into her living room and picked up her leather tote bag. She reached inside and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper. She smoothed it out on the kitchen island and stepped back.

I walked over.

It was a child’s drawing. Crayon on construction paper. A stick-figure woman holding hands with a little boy.

But it wasn't the drawing that made my blood run cold. It was the name written clumsily at the top.

Leo.

“Victoria has a son,” Emily whispered. “He’s five years old.”

“So?” I asked, confused.

Emily looked at me, her chest heaving.