Carlos yells again; now his voice is raw with panic, begging for his life, instead of trying to fight back like a man. I'd always known he was a coward; I just didn't realize how much. The next cut is shallow, delivered by me, meant to hurt, not to kill.
"Please, whatever you want, I'll give it to you. I’ll pay you more—" Fury overcomes me, and I cut him again. One of the other men slices his arm open. Blood sprays over the cold tile floor. I have no clue what Grigori's men are saying, since they're speaking Russian, not that I care. My focus is entirely on Carlos. His fear and agony are music to my ears. All the years I worked under the bastard, thescars he gave me come back. But most of all for what he's done to Sophia. He sold her off to a man he knew would abuse her. Sophia told me how she went to Carlos for help. Instead, he threatened her. I bathe in his fear and agony. My only regret is that it will be too quick. Quicker than Roberto's death.
Over and over we cut him, in my rage I want to lash out at the Russians for taking my kill, but some rational part—I think Sophia brought it back to life—stops me. Way too soon, Carlos is nothing but a bleeding piece of flesh on the ground. The water from the shower takes the blood down the drain. I bend over and grip his hair, tilting his head up, and recognition curdles his mouth. His pupils blow wide. “I made you.”
I press the shank to his carotid artery, “No,” I tell him, quietly. “I made me. Despite you.”
He flinches. Sokol and the other Russians say nothing. The water keeps talking.
“This is for your daughter,“ I fill him in.
He opens his mouth to say a curse, a prayer, or a weak defense. Who cares.
“I already killed Roberto," I add, letting it land where it hurts. “It’s your turn.”
Our eyes meet; there is a plea in his, and fear.
I do what I came to do.
Clean. Quick. No theatrics. The shower hisses, and the CO down the hall coughs into his elbow and studies a wall that has become incredibly interesting. Sokol glances at his watch. We ghost back into the steam, and the room knits itself closed behind us like it was never open.
By the time the paperwork stumbles into the right hands, I’m Raffael DeSantis again on a plastic bench in a white bus, taking me back to the intake facility. Sokol’s crew is smoking. And Carlos is dead. Just like I promised.
I knewhe was up to something when he left. I saw it in his eyes—theplease don’t ask—and I let him go. But the not-knowing gnaws. The house feels too big for one person, despite the guards inside and out. I suppose I could go talk to Esther, but lately our conversations have felt heavy. I think I got off my chest what needed to be said. The rest… I'll have to cope with on my own time. And it's not like I can tell her I'm worried Raf is going off to do something stupid, like kill someone… Or share what has been really bothering me lately, the possibility of him and my brother becoming enemies in a mafia war. Not even Roberto's cruelty tormented me as much as that thought or the way it will test my loyalties. God help me, I love them both. I can't side with either.
Except that’s a lie, and I know it. Raffael. It will always be Raffael.
And that thought tears me in two. What kind of person am I? Maybe it's time to send Esther back home. She can't help with this monumental decision in my life. I need to talk to Raffael when he comes home…
Six o’clock slides past. Then eight. I make tea, but I don’t drink it. I sit. I stand. I pace the length of the rug until the pattern looks bruised—five more hours crawl by like molasses.
Then I hear it, the loud growl of the Ducati, a low animal roar swallowing the quiet. The moment the sound catches my ear, I’m moving out of the living room, down the steps, into the night. He kills the engine, tugs off his helmet, and I’m on him before the word hello exists. My arms lock around his neck. I breathe in leather and road and him.
“Where were you?” The words crack as they leave me. “I’ve been so worried.”
His hands come to my back, and as always, they're steady and warm, chasing away all the ghosts that have been haunting me since he left. “I made good on my promise,” he says gruffly by my ear. “Your father is dead.”
I lean back, searching his face. “But… how?” The word scrapes out of me. “He’s in jail.”
“Princess,” he says, and shakes his head once. “No matter where your enemies try to hide, I will smokethem out.”
It takes a second for me to comprehend what he just said with so few words. Then it hits all at once. He went inside. He went to a place built to swallow men, killed Carlos, and walked out, and he’s standing in our driveway like it’s a Tuesday.
“My father,” I hear myself say. “Daddy Dearest.” The words feel thin in my mouth. I wait for something—grief, triumph, anything. There’s nothing. No sadness, no satisfaction. Just… relief. A door clicked shut somewhere I can’t see. The world shifts half an inch toward safe.
“Are you okay?” he asks, reading my face the way he always does.
I nod and then shake my head and then nod again. “I don’t know.” I grip his jacket, grounding myself. “Tell me.”
“Not here,” he says gently. “Inside. I’ll tell you everything.”
We walk up the steps together. My hand finds his. My pulse starts to climb down from the ledge. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel for the man who called himself my father. But I know what I feel for the man beside me: The man who said he would keep me safe.
And he did.
We don’t make it past the foyer at first. I press my palms to his chest like I’m checking he’s real, that leather and bone and heartbeat belong to the same man.
“In,” he coaxes, brushing a kiss across my hairline. “Shoes off. Tea. Then I talk.”
