We pass several heavy doors before stopping at one near the end. Alessio pulls out a key and unlocks it, revealing a small room with nothing but a cot, toilet, and sink.
"I don't want to hurt you," I say, my voice cracking. "I just need to understand what happened that night."
For a brief moment, sympathy flickers in Alessio's eyes.
"The truth isn't always what we want it to be," he says quietly. "Sometimes it just destroys everything."
He guides me inside, his touch almost gentle now. "There's water in the sink. Someone will bring food later."
"How long will he keep me here?" I ask, wrapping my arms around myself as the cold seeps through my clothes.
Alessio pauses in the doorway. "Until he decides what to do with you." His eyes meet mine. "Pray he cools down before then."
The door closes with a hollow thud, the lock clicking into place with devastating finality.
I curl up on the hard cot, my body trembling through waves of shock. The concrete walls press in around me, cold and unforgiving like Damiano's eyes when he discovered who I really am.
My father. Bianca. Thanksgiving night.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
I pace the small room, measuring it with desperate steps. Five paces across. Three paces wide. A cage for a traitor.
Hours pass, marked only by the distant drip of water somewhere in the pipes and the occasional shift of weight from the guard stationed outside my door. I try the handle once, knowing it's futile. The lock holds firm.
A key scrapes in the lock, and I scramble to my feet, heart racing. Is it Damiano coming to finish what we started?
The door swings open to reveal Ginerva carrying a tray of food. Her normally warm brown eyes won't meet mine as she steps inside. The guard's shadow stretches across the threshold behind her—I catch a glimpse of his holstered weapon before he pulls the door partially closed.
"Ginerva," I whisper, stepping toward her. "Please talk to me."
She sets the tray down on the small metal table bolted to the floor. Steam rises from a bowl of pasta, the smell triggering a hollow ache in my stomach that I choose to ignore.
"What's happening upstairs? Is Lucrezia okay?" I try again, moving closer. "Does she know I'm down here?"
Ginerva's hands tremble slightly as she arranges the silverware, but her expression remains carved from stone.
"Ginerva, please. Just tell me something—anything."
She turns finally, her eyes flicking briefly to mine before darting away. Her lips press together tightly, and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly before stepping back toward the door.
"I didn't know," I say desperately. "About my father, about Bianca—I swear I didn't know."
Her hand pauses on the door handle, but she doesn't turn around.
The guard's voice rumbles from the hallway. "Everything okay in there?"
Ginerva nods and steps out, pulling the door firmly shut behind her. The lock clicks, finalizing my isolation once more.
I sink down next to the tray, staring at the homemade pasta that would normally make my mouth water. Now it might as well be sawdust. My appetite vanished the moment Damiano's eyes went cold.
I push the tray away, untouched, and return to the cot. The food sits there, cooling and forgotten, while my mind races through a labyrinth of lies, trying desperately to find the truth at its center.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Islam the door of the Escalade and stalk toward the warehouse entrance, rage still boiling under my skin. The industrial building stands isolated on the edge of Queens, its weathered exterior hiding what happens inside. Perfect for keeping problems contained.
The heavy metal door creaks as I shove it open, the sound echoing through the cavernous space.
