Chapter 2
Not here.
Not where anyone might notice the perfect Casaro son being less than perfect.
She stepped closer so she would not have to raise her voice.
“Yes or no?”
Nico exhaled.
“Yes. But it wasn’t what you think.”
Strangely, hearing him admit it hurt less than overhearing it.
Maybe because now the truth belonged to her.
“Goodbye, Nico.”
He caught himself before reaching for her arm.
“Myra, wait. Please.”
She stopped.
Not because he deserved it.
Because eight months deserved a final sentence.
“I believed you helped my father.”
“I did help.”
“No. You visited. You made calls. But your father paid those bills.”
Nico went pale.
“Who told you?”
“That’s your first question?”
“No, I just—Myra, this is complicated.”
“It was very simple when you let me thank you.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
His silence became the answer.
Myra stepped through the front doors.
Cold air wrapped around her.
For the first time all evening, she could breathe.
She ordered a car and waited beneath the covered entrance.
Nico did not follow.
That, somehow, was the first decent choice he made that night.
The following morning, Myra woke on her childhood bed still wearing the T-shirt she had pulled from a drawer after arriving home.
She had gone to her parents’ apartment rather than her own.
Her mother had opened the door at nearly midnight wearing flannel pajamas and reading glasses.
One look at Myra’s face had been enough.
“What happened?”
“I broke up with Nico.”
Her mother had not asked for details.
She simply opened her arms.
Now sunlight came through the curtains in thin winter stripes.
For a few seconds, Myra forgot.
Then everything returned.
The bet.
Chloe.
Leo.
Nico’s face when she asked the question.
She closed her eyes.
From the kitchen came the sound of a cabinet opening.
Her father was awake.
Myra sat up.
She had barely slept.
Yet the thought of telling her parents made her feel more tired than the night itself.
Her phone showed seventeen missed calls.
Nine from Nico.
Six from Chloe.
Two from an unfamiliar number.
There were messages too.
Nico: Please let me explain.
Nico: The bet happened before I knew you.
Nico: I know that doesn’t fix it.
Nico: Myra please.
Chloe’s first message was shorter.
I’m sorry.
Her second said:
Please don’t believe everything you heard the way it sounded.
Myra stared at that sentence.
Then she deleted neither conversation.
She also answered neither.
In the kitchen, her father was cutting a pear at the table.
Daniel Bennett looked better than he had six months earlier. His hair had grown back where doctors had shaved it for surgery, and his shoulders were stronger from physical therapy.
He still moved carefully.
But he moved.
Every ordinary movement remained a miracle to Myra.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
He studied her.
“Your mother told me you’re single.”
Myra poured coffee.
“She works fast.”
“She was whispering loud enough to wake Queens.”
Despite herself, Myra smiled.
Daniel pointed at the chair across from him.
“Sit.”
“Dad—”
“Sit before your coffee becomes breakfast.”
She sat.
He pushed half the pear toward her.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
“Not really.”
“All right.”
That surprised her.
Daniel continued eating.
“You’re not going to ask?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if you want to tell me, you will.”
She looked at him.
It was such a profoundly normal answer.
No pressure.
No demand.
No one deciding what she should know or when she should know it.
Her throat tightened.
“Dad.”
He looked up.
“Did you know Leo Casaro paid your medical bills?”
The knife stopped.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Myra saw it.
“Dad?”
Daniel placed the knife down.
“Where did you hear that?”
“So you did know.”
“I knew someone connected to the Casaro family arranged help.”
“That is not what I asked.”
He leaned back.
“You sound like your mother.”
“She would be delighted to hear that.”
“She would.”
“Did you know it was Leo?”
Daniel looked toward the doorway.
Then back at her.
“Eventually.”
Myra stared.
“Eventually?”
“About three months after I left the hospital.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know you thought Nico paid everything.”
Myra pushed her coffee aside.
“How could you not know? I told you.”
“You told me Nico helped.”
“I said his family covered the bills.”
Daniel frowned.
There it was again.
That little difference.
Nico had never technically told her, I personally paid every invoice.
He had said things like, Don’t worry about it. I handled it.
Or, My family takes care of people.
Or simply held her while she cried with relief.
The lie had been built from implications.
Carefully chosen ones.
“Myra?”
She looked at her father.
“Why did Leo help you?”
Daniel’s expression became guarded.
“Because I happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.”
“That sounds suspiciously rehearsed.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Is it the whole truth?”
Her father did not answer immediately.
Myra felt a familiar frustration rising.
“Why does everyone keep deciding which pieces I’m allowed to know?”
Daniel’s expression softened.
“That’s fair.”
“Then tell me.”
He folded his hands.
“The man I helped that night was called Anthony Russo.”
The name meant nothing to her.
May you like
“He worked for Leo?”
“Yes.”
