Emanuelle stepped forward, his words calm and deliberate, like he was smoothing out each syllable before he released it.“Let’s think this through, brother. You followed her for weeks. You know her habits well. Where would Miranda go when she needs space?”
I shook my head, trying to scrape together every memory, every pattern I’d noticed. The truth was, I hadn’t been observing Miranda; I’d been spying. My mind raced, not with genuine concern, but with a desperate need to find a solution, any solution, that would salvage my reputation. “School, maybe. Her old apartment. I can’t be sure—she almost never deviated unless she was accompanying Oliver to some social event.”
Emanuelle checked his phone, his tone even. “Aurelio texted. No luck at Oliver’s place. Any other options?”
“She rides a motorcycle sometimes. Not often, but she’s got one she likes.”
The thought of her out there alone on the treacherous roads sent a fresh wave of panic through me. But it was a panic laced with a bitter irony. I had been so focused on controlling her movements, on mapping her life to better integrate it into mine, that I’d overlooked the very things that gave her independence. Now, that independence might be her undoing.
Cesar shot me a skeptical look. “Not the way the streets are tonight. Ice and snow everywhere.”
His dismissal was a gut punch. He saw me as incompetent, a liability. And perhaps he was right. I had promised him a secure union, and I had delivered a disaster.
I raked both hands through my hair, unable to stop myself from shouting, “I don’t know, damn it! I told you—I barely know her. This was doomed from the start, and now she’s out there, thanks to Barbari screwing everything up! She’ll never trust me again.”
The last part was a raw, desperate admission.
Not only had I failed Cesar, but I had irrevocably broken any chance of earning Miranda’s trust—the very thing I needed toprotect my family and give them the time they needed to get the information they sought.
The truth, laid bare and ugly, was that I had approached this marriage as a transaction, a strategic alliance, another move in the wicked game I was playing, and now the foundations were crumbling.
Guilio snorted. “Like she ever trusted you, genius. You’re real smooth at this marriage thing.” His taunt struck a nerve, a raw wound I’d been desperately trying to keep hidden. His words were a mirror to my own internal self-loathing, a brutal confirmation of my inadequacy.
I didn’t hesitate—my fist shot out, connecting squarely with his jaw. It was a foolish, impulsive act, a reckless lashing out born of guilt and a desperate need to assert control, any control.
“Screw you, Guilio! You don’t know anything! So why don’t you stop running your mouth and help for once!” I screamed, my violence a brief release from the oppressive weight of my own failures. As the impact reverberated through my knuckles, regret took root almost instantly, reminding me that this was a choice I would come to rue.
My outburst was nothing more than a deflection—a sad attempt to demonstrate strength at a time when I felt completely powerless. The anger pulsed through me, but underneath it all, I knew my actions were hollow echoes of the control I desperately sought. As the raw emotion faded, the futility of my aggression became painfully clear.
Guilio rubbed his jaw, his smirk unwavering and unfazed by my aggression. “Holy shit.” The smug son of a bitch grinned. “It wasn’t a lie.” He reveled in the chaos, his amusement only further stoking the frustration seething inside me. Yet, despite the blow, he refused to yield, his confidence a mirror to my own unraveling composure.
Unable to contain my fury, I balled my fist and sneered, “Shut up, Guilio.” My words were sharp, meant to intimidate, but Guilio’s resilience only underscored my own weakness.
Cesar’s voice cut through the thick tension, demanding clarity. “What wasn’t a lie?” he asked, his gaze shifting between us, searching for the truth in our faces.
Guilio didn’t hesitate. “He fucking fell in love with her!” he announced, dropping a loaded bomb in the room. Instantly, all eyes snapped to me, the weight of Guilio’s revelation hanging in the air, impossible to ignore.
“Is it true, Massimo?” Cesar asked. “Do you truly love her?”
The silence that followed was suffocating. I couldn’t deny it—not to myself, not to them. My chest ached under the burden of truth exposed, the air thick with everything left unsaid. Guilio’s announcement had stripped away every pretense, leaving me raw and vulnerable in front of the people I needed most. But in that moment, there was no going back; the secret was out, and all I could do was brace myself for whatever came next.
“Yes,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper, the confession weighing heavily on my chest. “I knew she was mine the moment I laid eyes on her.” My words trembled in the silent room, exposing a truth I could no longer hide.
The impact of my admission rippled through the group. Luca let out a long, low whistle, his surprise evident in the sound. Emanuelle, standing nearby, nervously rubbed the back of his neck, uncertain how to respond. Guilio, ever the pompous ass, straightened and allowed a sly smile to spread across his face. “Well, this changes things,” he remarked, his tone laced with both amusement and intrigue.
Cesar’s glare burned into me, his patience stretched thin by the revelation. His jaw clenched as he seethed, “Yes, it does.” The tension in his voice made it clear that my confession had shifted the dynamic, altering the path that lay before us.
Before the tension escalated further, Cesar’s voice sliced through the room with commanding authority as he pointed his finger at me. “We will discuss this later, but first we need to find your wife before someone else does.” His words snapped us back to reality, serving as a stark reminder of the stakes and the urgency of our situation.
My petty outburst and internal battles were luxuries I could no longer afford; the circumstances demanded I push them aside.
I had to find her—not just for Cesar, not merely to escape Barbari’s schemes, but because somewhere beneath my ambition and fear, I knew I needed to try to salvage what little remained of Miranda’s safety and, perhaps, a fragment of my own integrity. Yet, the path ahead was shadowed by the knowledge of my failures, and I feared this search might be my last desperate attempt in a life already undone.
The room fell into a tense silence. Each of us exchanged wary glances as the urgency pressed in on all sides. Outside, the snow continued to batter the windows, relentless and unforgiving, echoing the desperation swirling inside me. For a moment, no one moved; it felt as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for someone to shatter the stalemate with a spark of hope or a new idea—when suddenly, a conversation surfaced in my mind.
“Oliver,” I whispered, my voice fractured beneath the weight of dread, each syllable scraping raw against the inside of my throat. As the fragments of our conversation surfaced, my pulse surged into panic. He never trusted me. Always confrontational when I was around. Hated that I had taken an interest in her. But what I’d missed, what I’d ignored—was the thread unraveling beneath it all.
My pulse thudded in my ears, chest tight with dread. “He was angry. He didn’t trust me. He offered to call her family.” Thememory burned, sharp and unrelenting, as the truth began to take shape in my mind.
