His head lolls, his body sagging, and I feel the life drain from him, his eyes going blank as he dies in my grip. I let him fall, my hands trembling, rage and despair warring inside me.
The bar is quiet now, save for the distant wail of sirens. My men are bloodied but standing, only two with minor wounds, while Vittorio’s crew lies dead.
I turn to Tomasso, my voice hoarse. “I fucking let him take her.” I say, the hollow truth sinking into my bones.
He nods, his face grim.
I stumble back to the car, my gun still warm in my hand, my mind stuck on the pain and panic that will be surging through Liliana’s body right now.
This is my fault. I let her walk in there, wired or not, trusting I could keep her safe, but I was wrong. I should have held her back, should have told her that I’d die before letting her face Vittorio.
The weight of my failure crashes over me like a tide I can’t escape, and I sink against the car, my chest heaving. If anything happens to her, to our twins, I’ll never forgive myself, neither will I be able to live with the guilt.
Her face, her touch, her love—they’re all I have, and I’ve let her slip through my fingers.
I look at the bar, its neon sign flickering, and vow, my voice a broken whisper, “I’ll find you, cara. I swear it.” But the words feel empty, drowned by the despair that grips me, knowing I may have lost her forever.
I close my eyes briefly, summoning control, gathering the shards of focus and fury, readying myself for whatever comes next. I will find her. I will not fail her again. I cannot.
And if Vittorio stands in my way, I will dismantle him piece by piece until he has no power left to threaten what is mine. My love, my wife, my heart, my life. She is all of these, and I will not allow her to be taken from me, not ever.
30
LILIANA
The darkness here is a living thing.
It presses against me in the damp, thick air, curling into every breath until I cannot tell if I am breathing at all. The walls drip, slow rivulets of cold water running down stone that has seen too many things. The ground is uneven under me, gritty and wet, the smell of rust and something fouler hanging heavy.
My body aches from sitting against the wall for so long, my knees pulled to my chest for warmth. It doesn’t help. The rope around my wrists rubs the skin raw. My back aches from the cold wall I’m pressed against. The cold here seeps into bone. But it is not the cold that makes me tremble.
I try to mark the moments between drips, to count something, anything, that will anchor me, but the rhythm slips every time. My thoughts always return to my babies. The small lives inside me, fragile and precious, too defenseless for a world like this. I press a hand low to my stomach, the gesture instinctive, protective. I sign to them in the dark, slow, deliberate motions against my thigh. Stay strong. Your father will come.
I think of Giovanni, too. His face when he looked at me last. The distance in his eyes. The way he turned away. I tell myself he will come for me, that nothing would stop him, but the thought feels thinner now, stretched and fraying. How do I know he is not relieved to be free of me? How do I know this is not easier for him?
I was a fool to come here. To walk into whatever trap Vittorio had set, thinking I could take something from him and hand it to Giovanni like proof of my loyalty. Now all I have done is put myself exactly where Vittorio wanted me.
The sound comes suddenly, the echo of footsteps on stone, growing louder, heavier. I lift my head, blinking into the dim light spilling from the corridor beyond the bars. The sound of a key turns the air heavy.
The door groans open, and my heart pounds as light spills in, blinding after so long in the dark.
Vittorio steps through, his suit immaculate, his smile a cruel curve that chills me more than the stone. But it’s the man behindhim who stops my breath—my father, Renato, his face gaunt, his eyes hard with a purpose I don’t recognize.
Shock crashes through me, a wave that leaves me reeling. I push myself upright, my hands trembling as I sign without thinking. Papa? What are you doing here?
He watches me for a moment, then his mouth twists into that familiar, cruel smirk. He raises his hands, mimicking my signing with exaggerated, mocking movements, as if my words are a joke meant for his amusement. He’s always done this. He knows how it cuts.
Vittorio laughs, low and mocking, as he leans against the wall, his gaze raking over me. “Your father’s been quite helpful,” he says, his voice smooth, venomous. “The family reunion will indeed be touching.”
He steps closer, his shadow swallowing the dim light. Vittorio Greco is tall, broad in the shoulders, his tailored suit cut from charcoal wool that looks wrong in this place. His dark hair is combed back with precision, his jaw sharp, clean-shaven. His eyes are what hold me—black, fathomless, with that glint of cruelty that never leaves.
I've always loathed him. But now, in his presence, it's not hatred that pulses beneath my skin. It's fear for myself, and my unborn babies. Fear for Giovanni.
“You know,” he says, tilting his head as if lost in thought, “your father once promised you to me six years ago to seal ourfriendship and pact to rule the underworld together. I thought it might be... interesting.” He allows his gaze to linger on me, slow and deliberate, before snapping back to my face. “But I couldn’t take him up on it. You’re an invalid. Broken. And not worth the trouble.”
The words slice deep, but he isn’t finished. He smiles faintly, without warmth. “Just because I don’t want you doesn’t mean anyone else should have you. Giovanni, in his smug little way, thought he could take what was mine. Thought he could have you and win.” His tone turns to ice. “I don’t like men touching what’s mine, whether I keep it or not.”
I turn to my father, desperate for something, anything. You’re going to stand there and watch him hurt me like this?
