Right now, I’m at Donna Margarita’s mercy. I don’t even know where we’re going. I have zero control. Just the steady hum of the engines and her scrolling lazily through whatever empire she runs from behind that phone screen.
I need to get back to my house. Reach out to the network. See what’s left to salvage from this clusterfuck of a mission. I need to regroup, rebuild, andplan.
But none of that can happen until she decides I can go.
And that’s the part I hate most, sitting here, watching her thumb swipe across the glass while I’m cut off from my world, my war, and my people.
For the first time in years, I’m not the hunter. I’m the one in the cage. And I fucking hate it.
A couple of days later…
Gigi’s text is still glowing on my screen.
Gigi:
Marcello’s out of the hospital.
Relief swells in my chest, warm and sharp, and almost painful.
I’ve been in L.A. for days now, and for once, Roberto has left me alone; he's too busy expending his rage on some poor man named Matías. I’ve been free to wander Rodeo Drive and play the part of the pampered wife, all while wondering if my brother is still lying in a bed hooked up to machines. But now I know he'shome. Home!
I shouldn’t text him.
If Roberto sees…
But my thumb hovers anyway. I type fast, before I can talk myself out of it:
Me:
Glad to hear you’re out. I’m out of the city for a few days.
I’ve barely hit send when my phone vibrates again, this time with an incoming call. Marcello. I swipe to answer, keeping my voice lighter than I feel. "What are you doing up so early?"
"Where are you?" he asks immediately, that protective edge in his voice making my throat tighten.
"Los Angeles. Roberto has some business here, so I decided to go shopping." I glance toward the suite’s door, praying he’s still out.
And then the lock clicks. The door opens. Of course it does.
"Who the fuck are you talking to?" His voice slices through the air like a whip, and the relief I felt seconds ago curdles into ice.
"It’s just Marcello," I say quickly, my tone too soft, too controlled. I don’t know how he heard about it—Marcello—but I can feel it in the pit of my stomach: he knows.
"Let me talk to him," Marcello orders, in a sharp voice, one he's never used with me before.
"He wants to talk to you," I whisper, holding the phone out to Roberto.
Roberto's irritation is already simmering. "Christ, it’s ten at night. Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow."
"Now!" Marcello’s bark is so loud, Roberto nearly pulls the phone from my hand, his eyes flashing with surprise. Nobody talks to him like that.
"You do know there’s a time diff?—"
Marcello doesn't let him finish. Even from across the room, Marcello’s voice spikes—sharp and commanding—though I can’t make out every word. Just pieces. "My blood… hurt her… bare hands…" The tone alone makes me press my lips together to hide the tremor.
Roberto’s brows lift, then drop. "You’ve got it twisted, Marcello. I take care of your sister. You think I’d bestupid enough to lay a hand on her?"
Another burst of Marcello’s voice cuts through, low but lethal, a string of words I can’t quite catch except forget away with it.
