As they drag me away, my shoulder screams, my ribs ache, my vision flickers between light and shadow. Renato watches from the corner, his face unreadable, as if this is nothing more than a tiresome chore.
I tell myself I will not give them what they want. That I will not let them have a single piece of Giovanni. My resolve tightens, as the memory of my father’s voice cuts through, telling me I am nothing, that I ruin everything I touch.
Somewhere in the middle of it, my will frays. Not in the way they want. I still hold my silence, but it's in the quiet space inside me where hope lives. Because what if Giovanni doesn’t come? What if he looks at the empty space where I was and feels only relief? I shake my head to dislodge years of negative words that have been planted in there. And instead, try to hold onto the image of him coming through the door, his arms around me, his words reassuring me.
I am not sure when the pain stops. The silence after is almost worse, a hollow ringing in my ears. I lie where I have fallen, my cheek against the cold stone, the taste of copper in my mouth. Renato says something low to Vittorio, and their footsteps retreat together, the door scraping shut behind them.
Darkness folds in again.
I do not move. I do not try to sit. The cold soaks into me until I cannot tell where I end and the stone begins. My hand drifts tomy stomach, but the comfort I try to take in that touch feels dim now, dulled by the words that keep replaying in my head.
Jinx. Burden. Worthless.
I close my eyes. I tell myself Giovanni will come, but even in my own mind, the voice sounds faint.
Why should he risk it all for me?
31
GIOVANNI
Twenty-four fucking hours!
Twenty-four hours of silence and shadows that evaporate the moment I reach for them. Every second Liliana is gone carves deeper into me, but I cannot falter. I cannot allow despair to make me weak. Not when she is out there, somewhere, and every second counts.
I have called in every favor I know. From policemen to commissioners who owe me loyalty beyond the law, men in high places who would crumble rather than deny me, and those who owe my father debts written in blood and silence. I have pulled every string, every hidden lever, tracked down every connection that reaches into the shadows.
And yet, until now, it has been nothing but silence. Nothing but the gnawing edge of fear and frustration. I have men everywhere, contacts in every corner, warehouses, safehouses, boats, and still, I cannot reach her.
While pacing my office just past midnight, my phone rings. It’s one of my father’s old men.
“I heard your wife was taken.” He says, cutting straight to the matter.
“Yes, and?”
“I have a lead.”
He claims to have friends and friends of friends deep inside Greco’s operations. Someone who knows someone who knows someone with access to Greco’s hideouts and plans. The word he's heard is that Greco is bragging about his plans to finally take over my organization falling into place. My pulse spikes, a low growl rising in my chest. Every nerve sparking with the knowledge that after twenty-four hours of being blind, I finally see a light at the end of this hopeless tunnel.
Tomasso curses under his breath, tense yet ready. “It’s a trap. The bastard must have influenced the man to willingly let up his location. He knows we’ll come.”
“Then let him lay his traps,” I say, calm and controlled, but every syllable is a promise of violence. “I am the one who will be catching him off guard tonight.”
“What do you mean?” Tomasso asks suspiciously.
“I will be going alone.”
Dario glances at me from across the room. “Alone?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I’ll play into his hands. If Greco senses an attack, he will kill her without a second thought. So, I will go alone, but you and the rest of the men will trail loosely behind.”
Camilla finally speaks up, her voice sharp with reasoning. “What if he kills her the instant he sees you? After all, you are the one he is after.”
“That will not happen,” I growl. “Greco will want leverage. Something to make me want to co-operate.”
I take the coordinates the caller gave us, studying them like a map of my own heartbeat. I can picture her there, in some darkened room, maybe a basement, maybe an abandoned building.
The thought of her frightened, maybe hurt, the marks of fear or worse on her, drives my blood hotter, and yet my mind is ice. Every move has to be exact. Control is all that stands between me and failure.
