Her voice is a whisper at first, shaking but resolute. "This isn’t on you. You weren’t responsible for me. My father is the one who married me off to that monster, knowing exactly what he was. And Roberto…" Her words falter, her mouth twists, like the name itself tastes foul. "Roberto made sure I never forgot it. That I never believed I was anything but his to break."
The rain hammers harder against the glass, drowning out the rest of the world, forcing us into this single moment where there is no escape, no lies left between us.
"No," I whisper, my voice cracks against the thunder. "Still. I should have come. I should have stopped the wedding."
The words hang heavy in the room, almost swallowed by the roar of rain against the windows. Silence rages between us, thick and suffocating, as we both sit with the truth of what might have been. I see it too clearly, her in white, her eyes begging for someone to save her, and mestanding back in the shadows, fists clenched, rage burning, but chains holding me in place.
I could have done it. I could have ripped her from that altar. But Carlos would have been furious. We’d have been on the run, hunted before we ever had a chance to breathe. And back then, my company wasn't strong enough, not yet. I could have saved her from that vow, but I couldn’t have given her the life she was raised in, the comfort she was accustomed to. We would have been fugitives from the Cosa Nostra, and I couldn't have protected her against all of them. Not then. I'm realistic enough to accept that.
Our foreheads meet, damp from tears, pressed together as if the touch might rewrite time itself. I wonder if she’s tracing the same road in her mind, following it to the same bitter end.
She smiles through her tears, small, broken, and devastatingly beautiful. "Fate’s funny, isn’t it?"
Thunder crashes and rattles the house to its bones, but all I can hear is the sound of her voice, the ache in it, the hope buried deep beneath the ruin. With her tears soaking into me, with her face pressed to my chest as though I can shield her from every shadow, I make another promise. One I don’t need to speak aloud, because it’s already etched into me, bone-deep and unshakable.
He’ll never touch her again. No one will. Not while I breathe. Not while I live.
But Roberto’s already rotting in the ground. That oath is too easy now.
It’s Carlos who still breathes. Carlos, who set this all in motion. Carlos, who thought he could use me like a pawn and discard me. Who handed her over like she was nothing but a bargaining chip. My jaw locks as I press my lips to her temple, tasting salt from her tears.He’s the one left to burn.
And beyond him? Every bastard who looked away. Every man who thought silence was survival while she screamed in the dark.
The storm rattles the windows like cannon fire, and I let the fury sharpen inside me, silent but unbreakable. Sophia shifts slightly against me, her hands fist in my shirt like she knows what I’m thinking, like maybe she feels the violence coiled in my chest. Her voice is barely there, raw, trembling. "Raffael…"
"I’m not done," I murmur against her hair, each word heavy as stone. "Roberto’s gone. But Carlos still breathes. And as long as he does, he’s mine."
Lightning splits the sky again, bright enough to catch the flicker in her eyes. Fear. Relief. Maybe both.
But it doesn’t matter. My vow is carved already, deep and final.
Carlos is next.
For a moment,I let myself slip into the dream I used to cling to in the worst of nights. My wedding day, the church heavy with flowers and false smiles, and then—Raffael. Storming in, gun in hand, killing every last man who dared stand between us. Kidnapping me. Saving me.
A sigh slips from me, half longing, half sorrow. As bloodthirsty as the vision is, I know one thing with a terrible certainty: I wouldn’t have hated him for it. I wouldn’t have stopped him. I would have run into his arms without hesitation.
But now I understand what that would have meant. La Famiglia would have hunted us to the ends of the earth. They would have put a bullet through Raffael’s skull, and when the blood dried, they’d have bound me to someone else just as cruel, just as demonic as Roberto. My prisonwould have only changed faces without anybody left to rescue me.
I turn my head and catch our reflection in the storm-darkened window. Raffael’s silhouette is a fortress beside mine, both of us framed in the glass like ghosts in someone else’s story. Outside, the storm churns. Branches thrash in the wind, shadows bending and snapping against the night. Rain spatters the glass so hard it rattles in the frame, chaotic, violent, relentless.
It feels like my life. Like my mind. Torn and twisted, lashed by forces I can’t control. Yet, there’s power in it. Power in the storm, power in the chaos. It owns the day, bends the world to its fury. I stare into the dark.God, if only I had some of that in me.
The storm beats against the windows like it wants in, every gust of wind rattles the glass until it hums. I’m curled against Raffael on the couch, feeling his chest rise and fall under my cheek, when his body shifts—tense, restless.
"Sophia," he says, my name rough in his throat. "There’s something else I need to tell you. Something no one else knows."
A shiver slips down my spine. His voice carries a weight that presses into the room, heavier than everything he’s already laid bare. Whatever he’s about to say feels bigger—darker—than anything before. I tuck my knees in, like I can shield myself from the impact, and my fingers curltight against the fabric of my sweater. When I finally manage to speak, my voice is softer than I mean it to be, cautious but unflinching. "What is it, Raffael?"
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand drags through his dark hair, and his jaw is set like he’s fighting himself. Then he stands, paces once, like a caged lion, before turning back toward me. "Do you know the name Ledyanoy Prizrak?"
I shake my head slowly. "No."
"The Icy Ghost," he clarifies, and the sound of the name sends a chill across my skin. "A ghost the underworld whispers about. A man who kills so clean that no one survives to tell the story. If you feel a cold wind before death, it’s him."
Lightning splits the sky outside, flooding the room for a heartbeat. His face in that light looks harder, older, scarred with truths I don’t understand.
My throat works as I force myself to ask, "What does he have to do with you?"
