My first instinct is anger. I am the leader of the Corello family. No one treats me this way! There are thousands of women in the city who would give their right eye to be where Marlena is. She’s a fool for leaving, and I should be happy to be rid of her.
But then guilt follows close behind, settling on my heart like a lead weight. I’m the one who forced her to take such drastic action. She needs the money from tutoring Frankie to pay her rent. I know all about her financial situation and how grim it is.
If it wasn’t for my mafia connections, she would be happy to stay right where she is. I’m no fool. I can see that she’s attractedto me. It might not be the smartest thing in the world to allow ourselves to get close, but stranger things have happened. We wouldn’t be the first May-December relationship ever embarked upon. We could make it work. We could be happy together.
Finally, depression makes itself known, dragging me down to the depths of despair. Alessia’s death comes back to me in all its horrific glory. I relive the final moments at her bedside, knowing that she was beyond comfort, and unable to grapple with my own demons.
With that thought, anger returns. There is no way I’m letting Marlena walk out of my life. I’ll do whatever I have to do to change her mind, but I’m drawing a line in the sand. She belongs to me, and it’s about time I made her aware of that fact.
CHAPTER 15
MARLENA
I’m shaking as I run away. The hallway seems like it goes on forever, and I’m terrified that the front door will be locked when I reach it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of Francisco’s goons in the kitchen. He watches me go and pulls out his phone. I’m sure he’s asking the boss whether I have permission to leave the house.
That means I have mere seconds to escape before I’m dragged back to face the king. I burst through the massive doors and scramble down the porch steps. My car is there, waiting to take me away to freedom. But still, I have to get past the gates.
The guard at the bottom of the hill gives me a wave. I wipe tears from my eyes and pretend everything is normal. I give him a wave and wait patiently for the gates to open, as if nothing is out of the ordinary.
My heart stops when the seconds drag on, but finally the heavy iron bars swing open. I step on the gas, not caring who hears me peel out into oncoming traffic. I have to get out of here. I floor it all the way home, ditch the car in the parking lot and race up to my apartment.
Why didn’t I pack already?I stress. I knew what I was going over there to do, and I had a pretty good idea how Francisco would react. But seeing him in that moment, that dangerous spark in his eyes when I told him I didn’t want to be in his debt, makes it so much more real. Somehow I know now that, although I’ve cut ties with him, Francisco won’t let me go, and I don’t have much time.
I grab a suitcase from the bottom of my closet and throw my essentials in. It’s the same suitcase I brought with me after my father died, the same one that’s been with me for most of my life. There are no distinguishing marks on it, nothing to say that it’s mine. It’s just a nondescript gray bag on wheels. It would be at home in any airport or bus terminal in any state in the country. But for me, it holds great significance. It means I’m on the run again.
I toss my cell phone onto the bedside table. I can’t take that. I grab my favorite pair of pajamas and my sneakers and thrust them into the suitcase. Not my tablet, not my earbuds, nothing with an electronic signal. But I can take the book I’m currently reading and my makeup bag. I chose three pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, and an entire drawer of underwear and socks.
I can buy whatever else I need. I’ll go to the college and grab Brandon. He’ll be upset, but what else can I do? Better upset than dead. I’ll have to explain to him what is happening and beg him to come with me. I send a silent prayer to the universe that Brandon won’t give me too much trouble. I know he’s sick of running, and he’s found peace with his college friends. But it’s too risky with Francisco and our father’s enemies still out there. We’ve got no choice but to go underground again.
I peel the curtains open and check the parking lot. So far, so good. I hurry to the kitchen, where I grab whatever snacks don’tneed refrigeration. I’m sitting down to tie my shoes when there’s a knock on the door.
Crap.I wasn’t fast enough. I exhale a steady stream of air, all the while berating myself for not packing the night before. I should have been prepared. Why wasn’t I prepared? Was it because I hoped I wouldn’t have to do this? Had I somehow believed that Francisco wouldn’t care, even though I had seen subtle signs of his possessiveness?
I know it’s him. If it isn’t him, then it’s one of his men sent to collect me. I wish there was a back door I could sneak out, but there’s only one entrance. I wonder if I can open the bathroom window and climb out, but I’m on the third floor.
Hanging my head, I go to answer the door. My heart is beating in my throat. I’m scared and nauseous, but almost relieved. Iwantto see him. I want him to fight for me. As stupid as that sounds, I’m flattered that he’s come.
On the other side of the door, I expect to see a handful of bodyguards. But there’s no one other than Francisco. He’s alone, which is probably very rare. What I know of the mafia is that the don doesn’t go anywhere without protection. They’re probably lurking somewhere just out of sight, giving their boss space to make his peace.
“I can’t stay,” I say softly.
This feels more like a romantic breakup than a runaway scenario. There’s no negative energy surrounding him. He seems sad, but not threatening or vindictive. Suddenly, I’m more worried about breaking his heart than I am about escaping with my life.
“Please,” he replies, not making a move. “I hate to see you go.”
“I can’t,” I repeat, unable to come up with more efficient words.
“Marlena…” Francisco begins, taking a step toward me.
I back up half a step, not because I’m scared but because I’m now deeply aware of his presence. I don’t think he’s going to hurt me. In fact, I’m afraid he might kiss me. This thing is complicated enough without bringing sex into the picture.
I get a flashback of my dream from the previous night. I was kneeling above him on the bed in the middle of the dance floor, his thick cock in my hand. I blink twice to clear my head, terrified that he’ll see right through me.
“I care about you,” Francisco says. “I would never hurt you or allow you to be hurt.”
“I know,” I whisper. And I realize Idoknow. He’s not a threat to me, at least not in the traditional sense.
“Dammit,” Francisco swears, closing the distance between us in one rapid step.
