The world narrows to flashes, his teeth scatter across the floor, the wet smack of flesh, the dull thud when a chair tips. My breath is ragged. My vision tunnels. Somewhere far off, I hear a voice—maybe one of my men—telling me to ease up.
I don’t.
By the time I register the copper taste on my tongue, my hands are slick, my knuckles split. Pacco’s making wet, rattling sounds through what’s left of his grin. He’s still alive, somehow. Barely and not for much longer.
I step back, chest heaving, and look at him without really seeing him. He's only the first. With all the disgust I feel for him, I kick him in the head so hard that hisneck snaps.
I barely notice my men parting when I exit this room to enter the next. And the next after that, and the next. Until every single fucking person in this house who was left alive is dead.
"Where's Roberto?" My breathing is ragged. It's been hours of releasing years of pent-up rage. Yet, I don't feel done. Not even close. Eleven people died, and I couldn't care less.
"In here," Leo points at the last guarded, closed door.
Not trusting myself with Roberto, I tell Leo to bring him to the computer shop, which has a small side room just for guests like Roberto. "String him up, naked. I'll be back for him."
"What do you want us to do with this place?" Leo asks. "Torch it?"
"No. I want this to be a message," I tell him, wiping my knuckles on the hem of my shirt until the cloth takes on another dark smear. "A message to anyone who thinks they can fuck with me or touch what’s mine. But don’t make it point at us. Make the cops drown in it."
Not that I worry too much about that. This scene is just the kind of clusterfuck they won't be able to solve. They'll find dozens and dozens of mob fingerprints and DNA. It'll take them years to weed through all this. But just to keep them busy, I add, "Scatter a few dozen other samples around. Send someone to the hospital to go through the hazardous material: old bandages, vials of other people's blood. Plant traces that point to dozens ofpeople. Let them catalog a hundred leads." In the end, they won't have anything that points at us over anyone else. And even if they tried to for some reason, there are dozens of plausible explanations as to how my DNA could have gotten here while in the employ of Carlos or Stephano. I'll also have a bulletproof alibi, just in case.
The next morning…
The first thing I register is the quiet.
Not the thick, tense kind I’ve learned to fear —the kind that means he’s lurking, waiting; it's a different kind of quiet. Still. Heavy. No footsteps pacing outside my door. No keys jingling. No slamming doors or sudden bursts of rage.
I blink up at a ceiling I don’t recognize. It’s smooth, ivory, and there’s a thin shaft of sunlight cutting across it from a half-open curtain. The sheets under me smell faintly of soap and something warm, masculine. My head is heavy, fuzzy around the edges, like I’ve been wrapped in cotton. Xanax, I remember dimly. He gave me a pill. Said it would help me sleep.
He.
Raffael.
My heart lurches at the thought of his name, at the memory of his voice last night. His words echo in my head. He said I could lock the door if I wanted. I push myself up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in my body. The same clothes from last night cling to me: a soft knit skirt, a pale sweater. They’re clean, but I feel dirty inside them, like my skin still carries the fingerprints of the last three years.
Three years.
It hits me in pieces, the shouting, the keys in the lock, the sound of his boots in the hallway, the weight of his hands. The way the walls of that room became my cage. How I learned to keep my voice quiet, to take the blows without crying out, to make myself small enough to pass through his days unnoticed.
And now… now I’m here.
I glance around. The room is… beautiful. Ivory walls, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling pale light onto a bed that feels like a cloud. A dresser, a writing desk, a chair by the window. It’s too much. Too nice. Nice isn’t for me. Nice means there’s a price I’ll have to pay later.
I swing my legs to the floor, bare toes curling into the plush rug. From somewhere deeper in the house, I smell coffee. It's faint but luring. But the need to wash the last traces of him off my skin is overwhelming. I head toward the bathroom, and that’s when I see the closet door is ajar.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pull it open. The sight stops my breath cold.
It’s full.
Not just full, it's perfect. Dresses in fabrics I love, in colors that make my skin look warm, my eyes bright. Sweaters soft enough to sleep in. Coats I used to dream of wearing in the winter. Jeans that look like they’d fit without needing a belt. Shoes—heels, boots, flats—all my size. All exactly my taste.
Like someone went into my mind and stole the contents of the girl I used to be, the girl who picked out her own clothes, and brought them here.
I touch a sleeve. My hand shakes. It’s impossible.
Roberto let me buy whatever I wanted, but I knew if I brought a skirt home that was too long, too short, or the wrong color, he would not only punish me, but make me return it like some disobedient child, standing there while the clerk processed the refund, my shame on display for strangers who didn’t know they were witnessing something far uglier than a bad fashion choice. Whatever I picked, I always had him in mind. But the things that hang here… they're all me.
I turn, scanning the room again, the heavy bed, the curtains, the way the sunlight falls on the floor.
