Another thought enters my head, but it's only on the periphery because I don't give a rat's ass about it right now, but it's there, a silent warning.Why is Igor telling you all this now? There is a timing factor here, DeSantis, think! But I can't, because there is only room for one thing. Sophia, my Sophia, is suffering, has been suffering for years. Deep down, I know Igor is manipulating me intosomething he wants me to do. But I don't care. My mind is filled with two sentences:
You let her go.
You left her with him.
With a cry of rage that reminds me of a wounded tiger, I swipe the monitors, keyboards, mice, notes—everything off the desk. I kick the fucking desktop until it's nothing but a bent pile of metal. I grab the chair, hammer it against the servers on the wall, but it's not enough to even touch the pain raging through my body—the self-accusations.
My eyes fall on one of my knives that has dropped to the floor. Perfect. I'll go to St. Raphael’s Medical Center and see for myself. I cut my arm to have a reason to be at the hospital. Wrapping a shirt over it is more for show than anything else, before I storm out of the house and swing on my Ducati. I push the machine to its limits as I lean into one curve after another.
My phone rings.
I want to ignore it, but it's Stephano. I answer through my Bluetooth helmet, and without preamble, he comes right to the heart of the matter the moment I pick up. "I need you to go to Puerto La Cruz and find the head of the Venezuelan cartel. Start with Teodoro Salazar."
This is perfect. I have no intentions of going to fucking Puerto La Cruz, but if Stephano thinks I'm there, he won't get suspicious if I don't show my face for a while.
"On my way, boss."
Earlier that day…
I wake up slowly; every movement hurts like hell. My wrists are sore. The skin on them is rubbed raw from the ropes. My back aches from the awkward angle he left me in. My cheek still throbs from the slap that finally knocked me sideways, and my legs tremble when I sit up too fast.
But the bed is empty. Thank God for small mercies.
No Roberto. Again.
For the past week, he’s been in and out—mostly out—chasing shadows. Giovanni’s disappearance after Enrico’s ambush has thrown him into some manic spiral of strategy meetings, failed leads, and phone calls that end in screaming fits. He’s convinced Cammie knows something. Convinced she’s hiding. Or worse—being hidden.He won’t admit it, but I think he’s scared. And Roberto Giordano does not do well with fear. He turns it into violence against me.
Last night was... bad.
Worse than usual. He tied me standing up to the bedpost, muttering about loyalty, about betrayal, about how Ilooked at him. I didn’t even say anything. But that didn’t matter. He slapped me once. Then again. And again. And again.
Until he got bored and passed out drunk, leaving me tied like some broken animal until the early hours of the morning when he finally jerked awake and untied me like he was doing me a favor.
I must have gotten a few hours of sleep after that. Enough to not collapse. Not enough to feel human.
Now the silence in the house feels like a gift. I peel off what’s left of my nightgown and step into a steaming shower, standing under the spray like it can wash the bruises away. For a moment, I let myself pretend that I’m safe.
That I’m free.
But even the water can’t hide the ache in my bones.
When I get out, the towel feels too rough against my skin. I wrap myself in a robe and crawl onto the edge of the bed to check my phone, mostly out of habit. And I'm stunned when I see all the notifications. Dozens.
Text after text after text, all saying the same thing.
So sorry.
We're praying for him.
I can't believe this happened.
Let us know if you need anything.
My stomach drops.
No.
No no no no?—
