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Dante shakes his head with a scowl, muttering to himself on his way out the door. Papa lets him go, meeting my gaze once we’re alone. “I’ve been too indulgent with you.” There’s regret in his voice, in his eyes. “I take a lot of this on my shoulders. You’ve always been your mother’s favorite. There’s never been a secret about that. And you know I would do anything to make her happy. But I let you get away with too much, and this is where it’s gotten me.”
“Papa.” I would never say this in front of Dante, not if my life depended on it. “Papa, I know how you feel, and I understand. But it can’t be helped. I care too much about her. She… she belongs to me.”
I don’t think I could’ve hurt him more profoundly if I’d hit him. He rocks back on his heels, and his throat works like there’s a lump in it. He opens his mouth, prepared to speak, then decides against it, shaking his head before turning toward the door.
“I need to know if she’s all right. Please.” I sound like a junkie begging for a fix, and maybe that’s who I am. That’s how far I’ve fallen.
My father sighs before pulling his phone from his pocket and taps the screen a few times. He holds it up for me to see the video feed.
There she is, and I release a deep breath, closing my eyes to absorb the relief before studying the image. She’s lying in bed, eyes closed, breathing deeply and evenly. “She’s asleep,” he so helpfully points out. “Safe and sound. And she’ll stay safe and sound… for as long as it serves me.”
“At least let me be there for the meeting.” Because I can’t bear the thought of her fate being decided without either of us being present. “I won’t say a word, I’ll sit off-camera, only—”
“That, I can’t do.” He puts the phone away, robbing me of the sight of Emilia’s sleeping body. “I want you to take a little time to remind yourself what this family means to you and what you mean to us.”
Even if he wasn’t in such a hurry to get to his meeting, I know there would be no making him see that the minute I met her, my life stopped being about me, my responsibilities, and my family.
If it comes down to it and I have to make a choice, I know, without a doubt, I would choose her.
19
EMILIA
I’m going crazy.
I’ve counted all five hundred and forty-two flowers on the wallpaper, I don’t know how many times. But it was better than wasting precious energy trying to escape. The doors were deadlocked, the windows sealed shut.
This place is more secure than Fort Knox.
I’m free to go where I want and do what I want so long as it never takes me out of this room or the bathroom. A lavish bathroom whose door is always locked from the outside the way the bedroom door is, but at least I have privacy. There are no cameras in there that I’m aware of. There’s only one mounted near the ceiling directly across from the foot of my double bed. I can’t imagine they installed it just for my sake, but who knows? I was out cold. They probably could have marched an entire brass band through the room, and I never would’ve known.
At this point, it’s easier to sleep than it is to be awake. At least when I’m asleep, I feel safe. I can dream. My subconscious can take me away to a world where things make sense, questions are answered, and I don’t spend every second wondering when somebody will burst into this room and drag me out by my hair to do whatever it is they decide to do to me.
It’s unsettling having no idea of the time. How long has it been since Rocco Santoro introduced himself to me? Actually, he didn’t even do that. He knew I’d know who he was right away. The smug prick.
I see the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.
Where is Luca? Is he ever going to come for me? If he doesn’t, will it be because he decided not to, or they wouldn’t let him? We’re in a huge mess, putting it mildly. I would at least like to talk it over with him to see how he feels and what he’s actually thinking.
I need to know I’m not in this alone, that I didn’t make the stupid mistake of getting too close to him, caring too much, and trusting too much. I don’t know when that shift occurred, and I’ve had plenty of time to think it over.
It feels like an eternity has passed since Rocco was here. All I know is it’s gotten dark since then, then light again. The next morning? It must be.
I can’t believe how much I want to believe in him. I can’t believe how many times I’ve told myself he wouldn’t betray me when that is precisely what he would do if he were smart. I am the last person he needs in his life, just like he’s the last person I need, so why doesn’t it feel that way? Why am I still hoping as I hobble across the room, awkwardly placing myself back in bed after washing up at the sink? There’s no getting in the shower with these bandages unless I have a way to wrap them and keep them dry. I couldn’t handle an infection weakening me further when I don’t know if I can trust anybody under this roof.
I’ve decided to close my eyes and try to fall back to sleep, where I can at least be happy for a little while when a soft knock at the bedroom door makes my heart seize with fear. The lock clicks, and I hold my breath, wishing there was somewhere I could hide, telling myself not to reveal my fear to whoever is about to step through the door.
It’s not Rocco, and it’s not Luca, either. It’s someone whose face I’ve seen only in photos, and even then, there aren’t many available. Rocco tends to keep her away from the public eye.
“Hi,” the girl whispers. Her thick, shoulder-length black curls bounce a little when she walks, carrying a tray with food that smells good enough to make my eyes water in gratitude. Her brilliant smile and wide, sparkling dark eyes make me stare in wonder. No wonder Rocco is so cautious with her. She’s a ravishing beauty with sensuous features, but the sweetness that seems to radiate from her strikes me as reason enough to protect her.
“I’m Guilia,” she announces brightly. “And you’re Emilia, right?”
I’m taken off guard by her friendliness. “Right.” What do I know about Guilia? Not much. She’s younger than Rocco’s sons, closer to my age than theirs. He treasures her the way he does his wife, the way so many of the men from these old Italian families do. They have no problem killing each other in cold blood, but their women? They venerate them. It’s the strangest juxtaposition.
Guilia sets the tray on the bed, balancing it across my thighs. I should be wary of her, but something about her radiates innocence like she shouldn’t be the daughter of a mob boss but is. “I asked if they would let me bring this up. Papa didn’t like the idea, but Mama said I should. She said you could probably use a smile.”
“She’s right,” I confess, smiling back at her. I wonder how she’s managed to maintain her sweetness in a cruel, violent world like the one she was raised in.
