"You don't know me."
"Clearly!" His eyes are wild with hurt and confusion. "Tell me. Who are you really? What have you been doing? Why have you been lying to me about everything?"
"Why do you think?" I spit back, anger rising to cover the hurt. "You think I wanted this marriage? You think I wanted to hand over everything I've worked for to some man I barely know?"
"This was all fake? Everything between us."
"Not everything." The words slip out before I can stop them, before I can think better of it.
He stares at me, and I can see him trying to process that admission.
"Then what was real?" His voice is quieter now, more vulnerable. "Because I don't know anymore. I don't know what was you and what was the act."
Because I don't have an answer. I don't know either anymore.
"You left me there," I say finally, choosing the one truth I can hold onto. "That's what's real. When I actually needed you, you weren't there."
"And you've been manipulating me for weeks. Lying about who you are. That's what's real too."
We stare at each other across the center console, both breathing hard, both furious, both hurt in ways we can't quite articulate.
"Your wrists are bleeding," he says finally.
"I know." I look down at them—raw, torn, the skin shredded from hours in those zip ties.
He reaches into the glove box and pulls out a first aid kit. "Let me—"
"I'm fine." I push it away, not ready for him to touch me.
He sets it on the console between us anyway, the gesture somehow final. Santino pulls his phone out and makes a call. "We're two blocks south," he says to whoever answers. "We're coming to you now." He hangs up and starts driving again without another word.
We don't speak for the rest of the short drive.
The silence is somehow worse than the shouting, heavier and more painful.
Five minutes later, we pull up to a different warehouse, one that's clearly being used as a staging area. There are cars everywhere. Men—lots of them, heavily armed. And standing in the middle of it all, looking like he's aged ten years in one night, is my father.
"Papa!" I'm out of the car before it fully stops, stumbling toward him.
He catches me, holds me tight against his chest.
"Liana. My baby. Liana." His voice breaks on my name. “Are you hurt?”
I'm crying into his chest, can't stop. All the fear, the pain, the anger, the confusion—it all comes pouring out.
"I'm okay," I manage between sobs. "I'm okay, Papa."
"Let me see you." He pulls back gently, taking in my face with growing horror. My bloody wrists. The cut on my cheek. The bruises forming. "What did they do to you?"
"I'm fine. I was able to get the gun away from Roberto’s nephew and I got out. I'm—"
"You got out." His voice changes completely, goes cold and hard. He looks past me at Santino, who's just stepped out of the car. "She got herself out."
Santino stops walking, clearly reading the danger in my father's tone.
"Don Dominic—"
"Papa—" I start, but he holds up a hand.
