That's the one that keeps me up at night.
"I heard Marco on the phone yesterday," I say quietly. "Talking to Vito. About the war."
The women exchange glances again.
"Vito's ordered a full-scale attack on the Irish," I continue. My voice sounds distant. Detached. "He wants every single one of them dead. Because of what they did to me."
"Elena—" Rina starts.
"How many people are going to die because of me?" The question comes out broken. "How many bodies are going to pile up because I was stupid enough to get taken?"
"This isn't your fault," Sofia says fiercely.
"Isn't it? If I hadn't gone to my apartment that day—if I hadn't made Rina force Dante to take me—if I'd just listened when Marco said it wasn't safe?—"
"Stop." Rina's voice cuts through my spiral. "You didn't ask to be kidnapped. You didn't ask to be raped. And you sure as hell didn't start this war. The Costellos did that when they came after our family."
"But people are dying?—"
"People were always going to die. This has been building for months. What happened to you was just the final straw." She moves closer but doesn't touch me. "You don't get to carry that guilt, Elena. It's not yours to carry."
But it feels like mine. Everything feels like mine—the weight of it crushing me from all sides.
"They're still alive," I whisper. "Ronan and my father. They're in cells somewhere waiting for me to... what? Decide what happens to them? I don't even know what that means. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"You don't have to do anything until you're ready," Gianna says.
"But when will I be ready? How am I supposed to face them when I can barely face myself?"
No one has an answer for that.
They stay for another hour. We eat lunch—or rather, they eat while I push food around my plate. They talk aboutinconsequential things, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. But nothing feels normal anymore.
When they finally leave, I'm exhausted. Not from activity but from the effort of pretending I'm okay. Of holding myself together when all I want to do is fall apart.
Marco comes home around six. He's been leaving during the day to handle business but always comes back before dark. Like he doesn't trust me to be alone after the sun goes down.
He's probably right not to.
"Hey." He sets his keys on the counter. "The girls came by?"
"Yeah."
"You eat?"
"Some."
He doesn't call me on the lie. Just goes to the kitchen and starts pulling out ingredients for dinner.
"You don't have to cook for me," I tell him.
"I know."
But he does anyway. Like he has every night. Making sure I eat at least one proper meal a day even when I don't want to.
I watch him move around the kitchen—comfortable and confident in a way I'm not sure I'll ever feel again. He's been so patient with me. So careful. Giving me space when I need it but staying close enough that I know he's there.
And I hate it. Hate that I need him to be careful with me. Hate that I can't just be normal around him.
