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“I’ll do that now.”
As I hang up, the fear and doubt haven’t entirely dissipated, but Emma’s words have fortified me, reminding me of the strength I’ve found within myself since meeting Alessandro. I’m not the same woman who fell in love with him; I’ve grown, faced challenges I never imagined, and through it all, I’ve found a resilience I didn’t know I possessed.
The urge to connect with Alessandro once more is overpowering, driven by a mix of desperation and dwindling hope.
I dial his number again, my heart hammering against my ribcage, yearning for a sign that the coldness was just a momentary lapse, an aberration.
But the call ends abruptly, the line going dead before a single word is exchanged, and with it, the last vestiges of hope dissipate like smoke.
The stark, unyielding reality of my existence as a mafia wife, bound to a man whose life is steeped in danger and impenetrable shadows, presses down on me with unbearable weight.
The shrill ring of my phone slices through the silence, a jarring intrusion. My breath catches, anticipation and dread mingling in equal measure as I reach for it, expecting—hoping—it’s Alessandro.
But the voice that greets me isn’t his; it’s my father’s. His words, laden with a grim satisfaction, send a cold shiver down my spine. “Look at the screen,” he instructs, his tone chillingly calm.
Reluctantly, my gaze drops to the phone, and the scene that unfolds before me is one of unbridled violence. Alessandro, the man I love, the man with whom I’ve shared moments of tenderness and vulnerability, is unrecognizable.
He’s an avatar of rage, his fists raining down on a bound figure, the impact of each blow punctuated by the sickening sound of flesh meeting flesh. The man beneath him is a broken, bloodied mess, his identity obscured by the brutality of the assault.
“This is happening right now,” my father says. “This is the real man you married. The man he’s beating won’t tell him where I am. This is what your husband will do to stay out of prison. This is the man you love. Now do you see why he has to die?”
“Where is he?” Alessandro is roaring at the top of his voice. I gasp in shock. Alessandro doesn’t look like a man anymore. He looks like the devil.
He pulls out a knife, pressing it to his victim’s face, screaming at him. “Talk or I cut your fucking eyes out.”
Overwhelmed, I stagger, my father’s voice fading into a distant, meaningless drone.
Blindly, I stumble into the nearest refuge, a stark, impersonal bathroom, and lock myself away from the world.
The walls of the cubicle feel like the only thing keeping me upright as I slide to the floor, my body wracked with sobs that tear through me with the force of a tempest.
My father is still talking. I fumble with the phone, cutting off the call. He rings back at once. I hurl my phone at the wall where it smashes into a thousand pieces.
EIGHTEEN
Alessandro
The dim light of the warehouse casts long shadows across the concrete floor, the echo of distant city sounds barely penetrating the thick walls that enclose us. I stand over the man tied to the chair.
His face is bruised from our earlier altercation, a vivid reminder of the trap that was waiting for me—a trap I walked into with eyes wide open, expecting to confront Garibaldi, only to find this hitman waiting for me instead.
He’s already confessed to being the one who gave Catherine the pills. The only reason he’s still alive is because I need to know where Garibaldi is hiding.
When she called, her light broke into my darkness and I was furious. The two versions of me vied for supremacy when I heard her voice.
I looked at my victim and I wanted to show compassion, like she would have done. But compassion would give me no answers so I hung up as quickly as possible.
I clench my fists so tightly my knuckles turn white, my breaths coming in short, controlled bursts. Fury courses through my soul.
Garibaldi has made this personal, and in doing so, he’s signed his own death warrant. I lean in closer to the hitman, my voice low and menacing. “Where is he?”
He hesitates, eyes darting around the room, looking for an escape that doesn’t exist. I tighten my grip on his shoulder, a clear reminder of his predicament. “Talk. Now.”
He refuses. For a while. Eventually he breaks. They always do. “I don’t know where he is. He called me and told me to be here, to take you out the minute you arrived. He said to make it hurt.”
“His spite got you killed. You should have taken me out from a distance, like a professional.”
“He didn’t want to risk hitting Jess.”
