I set the phone down on the vanity and stared at my reflection. The woman looking back at me was exhausted, worn down by months of playing Isabella Cohen-Romano, the perfect mafia wife.
You need to make peace with Vito, I told myself firmly. Whatever happened, you have to find a way to coexist.
The thought tasted bitter, but it was true. I had no leverage, no allies, no way out.
I heard the front door open around seven o'clock.
I'd learned to recognize the particular rhythm of Vito's wheelchair through the house.
I took a deep breath and went to meet him.
He was in the foyer, still wearing his tailored charcoal suit, adjusting his cufflinks with that habitual gesture I'd come to know so well.
"Vito." I kept my voice calm. "I was hoping we could talk."
His dark eyes flicked up to me
