The Final Score: When The Wife Walks Away

I didn't keep a ledger to save my marriage to the Chicago Underboss. I kept it to justify ending it.

Every time Blake chose his "childhood friend" Ariana over me, I deducted points.

When he left me burning in a gallery fire to save her? Minus twenty.

When he gave her my grandmother's brooch? Minus fifteen.

But the score finally hit zero on the night of the storm.

Blake abandoned me at a cemetery with a broken leg because Ariana called him about a flat tire.

Alone in the rain, unable to run, I was struck by a semi-truck.

As I bled out on the operating table, the doctors begged Blake—the head trauma surgeon—for the O-negative blood reserve codes.

He refused.

He ordered them to save the blood for Ariana, just in case her "panic attack" turned into shock.

He didn't know the dying patient was his wife.

Because of that decision, my body shut down to protect my vital organs.

I survived, but the eight-week-old heartbeat inside me stopped.

He killed his own son to treat his mistress's anxiety.

I woke up in an empty room and pulled out the black book one last time.

"Minus five points. Killed our child for her reserve."

I signed the divorce papers, wiped my fingerprints from the penthouse, and vanished.

Two years later, I returned to Chicago as a celebrated architect.

And the man who once ruled the city was kneeling in the rain at my feet, begging for a love he had already slaughtered.

Chapter 1

I didn't start keeping score to save my marriage; I started keeping score to justify ending it.

The leather-bound ledger sat heavy in Blake's hand-a stark, ink-black blot against the pristine white marble of our master closet island.

He flipped it open.

His eyes-usually the cold, calculating gray of a Chicago winter sky-scanned the pages.

He is the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit.

A man who can order a hit with a mere nod.

A man who could cut people open on operating tables to save them, just as easily as he gutted them in alleyways to silence them.

But right now, he didn't look lethal. He looked confused.

"What is this, Caroline?"

His voice was a low rumble, the specific frequency that usually made grown men tremble.

I adjusted the silk lapel of my blouse, fighting the urge to cross my arms and protect my chest.

"It is an accounting of our assets," I said, my voice unnervingly steady. "And our liabilities."

He laughed.

It was a sharp, dismissive sound.

"You're counting dates missed? Dinners interrupted? This is petty, even for you."

"It is not petty," I replied, locking my knees to keep them from shaking. "It is data. And the data suggests a terminal trend."

He tossed the book back onto the island.

It slid across the marble, stopping inches from my hand.

"You are a Santos now," he said, stepping into my personal space.

The scent of sandalwood and expensive scotch filled