Page 93 of Unravel Me

Finally, I tear my gaze away from Mark and look back toward the Ferros, feeling physically sick.

So I'm going to have to be in the same places as them again? Party with them? Visit their fortress? See the man who raped me and pretend it's no big deal?

This can't possibly end well…

Then I notice Rocco staring straight at me.

Even from across the audience, I can see his narrowed eyes, and a cold shiver runs through me.

Even though Mark knows exactly what happened, he barely seems to care. He certainly doesn't care how I feel.

At the beginning of our relationship, he respected it whenever I told him I didn't want to attend parties, galas, or concerts where anyone from the Ferro family would be present, but those days are long gone.

Now Mark does whatever benefits his career, while my fears, my trauma, and my anxiety no longer matter at all.

I slide my fingers into my pocket and wrap them tightly around the letter. I'll have to be very careful that Mark never finds it, because besides the pendant, it's the only link I have to the man who saved me that night.

Again, I cautiously scan the audience.

He has to be here, watching me. I'm almost certain of it. It's as if some kind of energy connects me to him, as though I can still sense that same thread that appeared between us back then, when he reached out his hand toward me, just before his eyes closed…

Who is he? Damn! Who?

An anonymous mafioso with a conscience who couldn't stand watching his boss hurt me? Someone trapped inside the mafia's ranks, who can't reveal himself?

As I sit there, I feel as though some kind of impulse reaches out to me, as if something is pouring into me, some strange energetic transmission.

Suddenly, I understand why he never contacted me.

It was for my own safety. He had to make this painful choice. It could end with me dead, because the man was part of the mafia and had close ties to Rocco. And still has.

The tragic realization sinks into me: this complete stranger didn't want me anywhere near the Ferros, while my own husband doesn't give a fuck.

My fingers touch the letter one more time.

In a way, it's perfect.

He didn't write anything that demanded something from me. He didn't ask for my attention, didn't burden me with expectations, and didn't speak about his hopes. He simply let me know that he existed, that I hadn't imagined him, and that he still remembered me.

I’m grateful for that.

It was only one brief moment in time when our paths crossed. One single decision he made changed the course of my life. If it hadn't happened, I'd be six feet under by now.

But my unruly heart still aches, despite the fact that what happened was for the best, because I'll probably never get the chance to thank him in person, shake his hand, or look him in the eyes.

In that fleeting moment, a painful thought flashes through my mind.

What if my whole life is wrong?

What if I was meant to have something completely different? And the life I'm trapped in isn't really living at all, but a slow, relentless death?

The thought refuses to leave me. It takes root deep inside my chest, clinging to me long after that moment has passed, refusing to loosen its grip.

It follows me even into the next day, as Mark drives me to my first round of injections meant to stimulate my fertility, so they can extract my egg.

I can feel myself sinking deeper into a chain of events that will soon become almost impossible to escape, sealing another door behind me.

And all I want to do is scream.