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Gabriel got to her…making her believe she wanted to be there in that tiny room.
I thought, when he first locked me away with her, that the two of us could escape.
Somehow, some way…
But I quickly learned she wasn’t going anywhere.
Stockholm Syndrome.
I read about it in self-help books after my sister and I were kidnapped when I was younger. Sofia empathized with Gabriel. She believed she wanted to be there. That he loved her. It was enough to make me physically ill…but there’s no talking someone out of that when they are in the midst of it.
So instead of planning an escape with her, I tried doing small things each day to ground her in reality. I thought we were making progress, but after Niccolò and Matteo broke down that door and she didn’t want to leave…now I’m not so sure.
My head starts to pound as I come down from the high of it all.
From finally letting myself realize I was held against my will—again.
From putting all of my energy into Sofia and pretending like she was the only victim in the situation…
I know I can’t just continue the façade. That I need to come to terms with once again being held against my will by a terrible, disgusting man. But I think it’s difficult because it was so different from when I was younger. We were clothed and fed and in a beautiful room.
The only time we saw people was when one designated worker brought us food and cleaned, and when Gabriel came to see Sofia…
It made it seem like a strange parallel universe rather than an abduction situation.
I rub at my temples as I sit at Dom’s kitchen nook. I notice his dark eyes are on me, along with another man he has in here who I’m assuming is security detail or something. I want to fucking shout at them that I won’t be going anywhere. Where the fuck am I going to go?
I feel like the ball in a match of Ping-Pong. First the DeSantises have me, then the Amatos, now a notorious hitman for the Amato family… Does this shit ever truly end?
Getting into bed with the mafia is a dangerous game. And it’s one I’ve failed miserably at—because my husband decided to become a traitor, deceive our mafia family, and subsequently bring me and my life crumbling down with his dishonor.
Enzo has been on my mind a lot over these months.
Along with the things that happened prior to me moving to Chicago…
And Niccolò. Niccolò has been on my mind the most.
Because in a strange and very fucked-up turn of events, he became someone I could almost…count on. He’s the one who told me about Enzo going to The Vault. The one who dropped whatever he was doing and helped me try to get pictures when I found out Enzo was meeting with someone on those back roads that day…
But he’s also the fucker who decided to leave me stranded there, too...even if he had a good reason for it.
Damn him for being so sexy and such an asshole at the same time.
An earthy, tobacco scent envelops me, once again reminding me of Enzo and his late-night cigars as he combed over paperwork. Reminds me of my husband, who I’ve done my best to not think of since finding out he’s a lying, pathetic, worthless, scumbag who had me convinced he was a good man.
I don’t know who I’m more upset with—him or myself. I’ve always relied heavily on the fact that in life, no matter who you have next to you, there’s only one person you can truly count on—and that’s yourself.
To know he fucked me over is one thing. People are notorious for letting other people down, right? But me? I letmyselfdown. Disappointment is hard to swallow, especially when you’re disappointed in yourself. I looked past the warning signs, the red flags, the excuses I had gut feelings about.
And I’ll never forgive myself for that.
I rake my gaze over the kitchen, to the man standing across from Dom, who puffs on a cigar. I’d like to rip it out of his mouth and flush it down the toilet. I can’t stand that even something as insignificant as a smell makes me remember shit I never want to think about again.
“So, what’s the plan, fellas?” I ask, looking from the burly security dude over to Dom.
His hair is cropped short on his head, barely there, a buzz cut. And the chains around his neck look like they cost a lot of money. I guess being a hitman is a lucrative business.
“Is this going to be my home for a few months? Everyone just going to keep shuffling me around like I’m a goddamn family heirloom?”
