The question circles through my brain on repeat, getting louder with each rotation. I dropped the bomb about Romano—threw it at Luca like a grenade designed to cause maximum damage. And it worked. God, itworked.
His face flashes through my mind. The way the color drained from his face when I said Salvatore’s name, leaving him ashen and gray like someone had physically struck him. Those dark eyes—nearly black in the dim light of his office—went wide with shock first, pupils dilating until the brown was almost completely swallowed. Then came the fury, hot and immediate, turning those eyes into something molten and dangerous.
But it was his mouth that haunts me most. The way his lips parted in shock, that perfectly sculpted upper lip trembling for just a fraction of a second before he clamped down on the reaction. The way his jaw—sharp and defined, the kind of jawline that should be on marble statues—went slack before tightening so hard I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
His hair had been disheveled from running his hands through it, those thick dark strands falling across his forehead in a way that itched for me to touch. I’d watched him rake his fingers through it again during our fight, that unconscious gesture of agitation that told me he was losing control even as he tried to maintain his composure.
And his hands. God, hishands. Those elegant, deadly hands that had held me so gently just days ago had curled into fists at his sides, knuckles going white with the force of his grip. I’d watched him dig his nails into his palms hard enough that I wondered if he was drawing blood.
The guilt makes me feel sick.
I betrayed him. Iliedto him for too many weeks about the most important thing in his world: the identity of Marco’s killer. I watched him suffer, watched the way grief made his shoulders bow under an invisible weight, watched those expressive eyes godistant and haunted when he talked about his cousin. I watched him torture himself trying to piece together who orchestrated his cousin’s death, and I saidnothing.
I could have ended his suffering. I could have given him the closure he desperately needed, could have redirected his rage toward the right target weeks ago. But I chose silence instead, chose self-preservation, chose?—
No.
I mentally slap myself hard enough that if it were physical it would leave a mark.
Why am I feeling guilty? Why am I sitting here torturing myself over Luca’s pain when he was planning tomurderme?
The recording I kept secret? That was about survival. About protecting myself from a man who had literally kidnapped me, forced me into marriage, and—according to what I overheard—had planned my execution. Planned to make my fatherwatchbefore killing him too.
My secret was about survival. His was aboutmurder.
There’s no comparison. Therecan’tbe a comparison.
And yet…
The image of his face when I said Romano’s name won’t leave me alone. He looked like I just shattered the last piece of him that was still intact. His hand had come up to his chest unconsciously, pressing against his heart like he could hold himself together through the revelation. His breathing had gone shallow and rapid, and for a moment I genuinely thought he might pass out from the shock.
I’d done that to him. I’d broken him with the truth he needed but wasn’t ready to hear.
I hug my arms around myself, trying to ward off a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature. My chest feels tight, like someone’s wrapped a band around it and is slowly pulling it tighter. Each breath comes shallow and quick, not quite enough oxygen getting to my brain.
The phone on my nightstand catches my eye. Cracked and useless. Just another reminder of how thoroughly Luca controls every aspect of my existence. I can’t call Katie. I can’t reach out to anyone for help or comfort.
I’m all alone. And I stay alone for hours.
Suddenly, the phone rings.
I stare at it in disbelief. No one calls me. The only calls I’ve received have been from him or Danny, and those have been brief, monitored conversations about nothing important. It can’t be the surgical supplier I had called recently, since it’s after hours.
So who?—?
I reach for it with trembling fingers, half expecting it to bite. The screen shows an unknown number.
For a moment, I consider not answering. Nothing good can come from mysterious phone calls in the middle of this nightmare. But curiosity—or maybe just desperate need for any kind of contact with the outside world—makes me swipe to accept.
“Hello?” My voice is gravely from the crying and screaming.
“Giuliana. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”
The world seems to slow down, and my nausea rises with a vengeance.
I know that voice. I’ve heard it in my nightmares, and more recently at the Romano gathering where I sat beside Luca and smiled while Marco’s killer toasted our marriage.
Salvatore Romano.
