I force a smile for the benefit of the room, but my stomach churns. I hate it when Roberto is nice to me. Hate the way it makes me remember—just for a second—what our marriage should have been. Laughter over coffee. Soft touches. A man who kissed me like I was a choice, not a possession.
But I learned a long time ago that this—his gentle tone, his arm snug around my waist, the kiss to my fingers—isn’t kindness. It’s a costume. A role he plays when there’s an audience. Right now, his audience is Donna Margarita, and I know how much he loathes it. My husband hates dancing on anyone’s strings, especially hers. Which means the moment we’re alone,the moment the performance is over, that anger will need somewhere to go. And I’ve always been his favorite outlet.
I shift in my chair, my eyes darting to the door, as if I can already feel the four walls closing in on me. But I keep my smile on and my voice sweet, "That would be lovely, honey."
The conversation between Aurelio, Margarita, and Silvestre keeps flowing, sharp and deliberate, but all I can hear is the ticking clock in my head. Every smile he gives me is another wind of the spring, coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps. And when it snaps… I’ll pay for every second he spent pretending to be the doting husband.
"Well, it's all good then. Hiccups were expected, and let's think of it this way," Silvestre says, getting out of his chair. "As soon as Roberto is the new Don, we'll move our men in, and New York will be ours."
"You hear that, my queen?" Roberto kisses my hand. The gesture sends shivers down my spine. I'm not quite sure what these people are planning, but I'm quite certain that if this explodes in their faces, nobody will care about collateral damage like me. For a brief moment, I wonder if I should go to my father, talk to him? But that moment passes. Carlos wouldn’t lift a finger for me, even if he weren't busy defending himself at trial right now. If anything, he'd be thrilled having both feet in a game of thrones. He has nothing to lose. He doesn't care if his daughter lives or dies, but if his son-in-law becomes Don…
Marcello is still in the hospital, but Gigi texted last night and told me he’s awake. Thank God for small favors; maybe there's still a chance I can talk to him. I hate to throw all my drama at him as soon as he leaves the hospital, but I'm not sure how much longer I can survive this marriage. Or Margarita, who is sitting across from me now, assessing me with narrowed eyes, weighing my value in her game. She'll send me to the wolves in a second if she thinks Roberto could make a better match.
"All good." Aurelio shakes hands, even kisses Donna Margarita's.
"Now, if I could ask for a small, itty-bitty favor," Margarita flutters her eyelashes.
"Anything, mi amor," Silvestre promises.
"Who are you holding in the cellar?" She turns to Aurelio.
"Nobody," he responds too quickly. He chuckles to make up for it. "Just a man who tried to break up our party."
"Oh, how intriguing. Mind if I take a look?"
"Santa madre, you’re as bloodthirsty as ever." Silvestre joins Aurelio’s chuckle, though Aurelio’s eyes remain flat and dark.
"We should all go," Donna Margarita says lightly, but when her gaze slides to me, I feel the weight behind it. It’s not an invitation—it’s a test. She wants to see how I hold up watching someone bleed. God help me, she’d probably enjoy watching me flinch.
"That is nothing for Sophia to see," Roberto says smoothly, without looking at me. "But you go, Donna Margarita. We’ll get ready to leave. I have business in LA."
For the first time in my life, I’m grateful for one of his indirect orders. Grateful to stay as far away from the cellar as possible.
"Yes," I murmur, the word slipping out almost too quickly. "Of course."
Donna Margarita’s smile tells me she heard the relief in my voice and will remember it. She turns back to Aurelio, tilting her head. "Let's go see your new little toy." She turns flirtatiously to Silvestre, "I want to see if your son can make people sing as brilliantly as you, mi león."
I watch them snicker and giggle, moving toward the stairs like they're going to a tea party and not to torture a person. I shudder. I don't think I'll ever understand this world.
"Let's go pack," Roberto takes my hand and leads me up the stairs, "I wish I didn't have pressing business in LA; I would love to see the sights here for a little while with my beautiful wife."
The ice running down my spine is nothing compared to the cold wrapping around my chest. Whatever is coming, it's going to be bad.
They never tellyou that pain gets boring. When you think of pain, you mostly think of the sharp, fresh kind, the kind that shocks and stings and makes you bite through the inside of your cheek to keep from screaming. But that shit is fleeting. What you're left with, whatlasts, is the ache, the ceaseless, gnawing, all-encompassing throb that eats through the hours like mold on bread, until you can’t remember what it was like not to hurt. I’ve pissed myself twice. I stopped being embarrassed about it after the first time, when a rat came to lap up the mess and I didn’t even bother to kick it away. The chains around my wrists have rubbed through the skin, and every time I shift, the scabs tear open and I feel the old, familiar sting for a moment before it’s eaten by the same old boredom. Blood drips in syrupy ropes from my elbows, gathering in a sticky pool at my feet. Flies are starting to find me. I can’t swat them away, so I name them instead. The fat one that keeps circling my left ear is named Boss. Thesmaller, smarter one that figured out how to slip into my nostril is called Little Guy. Sometimes I think I might actually be dead, that this is Hell, and I’m just waiting for God or the Devil to drop by and explain the rules.
But then the world shifts. Not much, a draft, maybe. The faint, sour tang of men’s sweat and something like cleaning fluid drifts down from the stairs. I hear boots on concrete, scraping dust in slow, deliberate paces. They want me to hear them coming. Want me to hang here and think about what’s next, what new and creative way they’ll invent to make me bleed. But I don’t flinch. I keep my head up even as I let my body hang slack and heavy from the manacles. I won’t give them the satisfaction. If I’m going to die down here, I’ll do it looking them in the eyes.
The footsteps stop at the threshold, and for a second, everything goes perfectly silent, like even the rats are holding their breath. Steps resume, and then they’re here, trailing shadows and perfume and the cloying sweetness of aftershave. Aurelio is first, swaggering into the circle of bare bulb light like a man who’s mastered the art of other people’s misery. He’s got a face you want to punch twice—once for each dimple—and hair that’s too perfect, like it’s been sprayed and sculpted into the shape of a threat. He grins when he sees me, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Aurelio isn’t here for the show. He’s here for the kill.
Beside him is a man built like a refrigerator, wide and squat and upholstered in expensive wool. He moves slower than Aurelio, but with a deadly grace, like a catthat only pounces when it’s sure the mouse can’t get away. His face is older, rounder, but the nose and jaw are the same as Aurelio’s—a family resemblance, if you considerpredatorya family trait. I've seen pictures of him; he's Silvestre, formerly the Don of the family until heretired. The big man doesn’t look at me right away. He stands with his arms folded over his chest, letting his son do the talking, the way old lions let the young ones strut until it’s time to feed.
Then I see her.
A woman gliding between them like she’s being escorted, like the room bends to her presence—dark hair, red lips, eyes that know and keep too many secrets.
Donna Margarita.
My gut goes cold.
