She stood up, her chair scraping against the concrete floor. The sound was final, like a coffin lid closing.
“Sofia, please.” He tried to push himself up, a fresh wave of agony making him gasp and fall back against the pillows. The movement was a pathetic testament to his helplessness.
She leaned over, her tears falling on his face as she pressed a final, desperate kiss to his forehead. It was salt and sorrow and goodbye.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
And then she let go of his hand.
The loss of her touch was more profound than the bullet’s impact. He watched, paralyzed, as she walked to the door. She didn’t look back. The door clicked shut, and the silence she left behind was absolute.
He was broken.
The drugs couldn’t touch this pain. He had been stupid. A fool to believe a man like him, a weapon, could have something as pure and normal as a life, a love, a future. He had dared to hope, and the universe had simply reminded him of his place—in the dark and the blood, alone.
He closed his eyes, surrendering to the void, the memory of her voice the only thing he had left.
“Tonio…”
It was an echo, a ghost. The last cruel gift of his dying mind.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The door clicked shut behind her, and the sound was so final she almost turned around. Her legs carried her down the hallway on their own. Luc stepped out of the shadows, mouth opening, but she shook her head once. He stopped. Carlos was behind him, eyes red. She couldn’t look at either of them. If she did, she would shatter right there on the floor.
Luc touched his earpiece, murmuring something low and fast into the mic. A moment later, a soldier she didn’t know was waiting at the front door, holding a small, black leather satchel. It was cool and stiff in her hands, like a doctor’s bag or a toolkit for a ghost.
No words. Just the quiet, ruthless efficiency of a family cutting a limb clean.
She walked out of the estate like she was walking out of her own life.
The night air was cool, but she was cold all the way through. She got into the sedan, the door thudding shut with a solid, unfamiliar click. The engine started with a stranger’s purr. In the rearview mirror, the gates began to close, slow and final.
Every mile she put between her and that room, she told herself the same thing, over and over, like a prayer that would make the ache stop.
He’s safe now. Young is dead. No one is coming for me. I did the right thing. I had to save myself.
The words were a shield, something solid she could hold on to. She recited them to the rhythm of the tires on asphalt. She focused on the logic, the brilliant, clean geometry of her decision.
She drove straight through the night, stopping only for gas. By the time the sun came up, she was two states away. She checked into a roadside hotel with thin walls and old carpet. She used the cash from the satchel. She gave a false name.
She sat on the carpet with her back against the bed and stared at the neutral beige wall. Her right hand still felt the phantom weight of his, the dry heat of his skin, the weak pulse at his wrist. She clenched it into a fist until the nails bit her palm.
She was free.
So why did it feel like she’d just been excommunicated?
Two Weeks Later
Freedom tastedlike dust and weak coffee.
She’d rented a small, furnished cottage in a coastal town so bland it was invisible. White clapboard, blue shutters, a view of other white clapboard houses. It was the picture of normalcy, a diorama of the life she was supposed to want.
She tried to build a routine. Morning walk. Groceries. Attempts to read books whose plots slid through her mind like water.
The world was safe. The senator’s dramatic downfall was a nine-day wonder, the “mysterious mafia” angle quickly buried under official statements about corruption and racketeering. Valachi’s name wasn’t mentioned. Tonio’s was never known. It was, by all accounts, a perfect, clean victory. The victoryshehad helped design.
And she was suffocating.
