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I had believed myself to be cold, unfeeling, my heart to have withered and died a long time ago.
But letting her go had shattered that illusion.
I’d had a heart after all—and now it was gone.
“Are you okay, Gabe?” Alessio’s voice broke through my thoughts, concern etched in his features.
“Of course,” I lied, my voice flat.
Every cell of my being ached for her, but I wouldn’t let it show.
With an absent nod, I tore my gaze from the ascending jet.
“Come morning,” I began, forcing my emotions into submission, “we will need to turn the heat on Fausto.” My voice held determination, belying the storm raging inside of me when I lost sight of the blinking lights of the jet against the black-as-ink night sky.
“Inform everyone you can reach. There will be a meeting tomorrow morning—a decision to be made.”
I climbed down from the vehicle, and Cristo and Alessio did the same.
We went to our own much smaller private jet, ready to fly home. Ready to fight to remain in power in this family.
Or die trying.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE
Three weeks later:
“Is there anything else you want to talk about today?”
I shook my head while looking at Nick—our family therapist—as openly and innocently as possible.
This was our tenth session in the last three weeks, and I was over and done with therapy.
Nick had known Cara, Jemma, and me since our mother had died, and our father insisted on therapy sessions for all of us.
When my father had insisted on taking up therapy again, I didn’t even object—even though I knew there was a big chunk I wouldn’t talk about.
Couldn’t talk about.
Gabe and the days I spent with him.
Everything I experienced with him. His hands on my body, his eyes on me. The feelings of safety and love I had been missing ever since.
But I told Nick about Fausto. Told him about the kidnapping, talked about my fears, the degradations, the pain, and the feelings of worthlessness, of the dirtiness I felt—before Gabe.
I cried, I wailed, I cussed.
It was like an exorcism of some kind.
I got it all out.
Nick was impressed with how I coped.
But was I really coping?
Or had everything I’d experienced with Gabe been so intense, so technicolor instead of the muted tones my normal life consisted of, that it was burnt into my memories, outshining and crowding out the darkness of what had happened before so all the bad things couldn’t linger and fester?
I suspected the latter was true.
