Matching mugs. Coordinated clothes. Small decorations that hinted at something shared.
Salvatore had never liked any of it.
He never wore anything that could suggest he was taken. Never used anything too obvious. He said a man in his position couldn't afford to look soft. Couldn't give anyone a handle to grip.
I used to joke about it.
Saying he acted like some deep-cover fed, hiding his identity from the world.
Now I realized.
It was never a joke.
He just never saw me as someone he needed to claim.
I was halfway through packing when I heard the door open.
He came back.
"Elena, what's this about?" he snapped the moment he saw me. "I've been calling you! I told you to come out for dinner. You didn't pick up or reply!"
I didn't look up immediately.
The scent reached me first.
A woman's perfume.
Not mine.
Not even close.
Without thinking, I lifted my hand slightly, stopping him from coming any closer.
When I finally raised my eyes, they drifted to his neck.
Faint red marks.
Hickeys.
"Sorry," I said calmly, my voice steady. I smoothed the fold of a blouse flat against the suitcase lining, pressing the crease until it was sharp enough to cut. "I've been busy. Didn't check my phone."