Lorenzo leans forward, voice low and cold. “What Aurelio wants is immaterial. He has my daughter, and now I have his son.” He gestures to the guards, who level their guns at me and take a step forward. “You wanted to help get her back? Now you can.”
The door flies open.
“Enough!” Catarina storms in, her heels clicking angrily across the hardwood floor. Her hair is coming loose, her face tight with rage. “You’re both out of your minds.”
Lorenzo doesn’t even stand. “Get out, Catarina.”
She ignores him and plants herself beside me, hand trembling against my back. “Tommy is our only chance at getting Giovanna home. You may not love me, but you love our daughter, don’t you? If you want her back, this is the man who can make that happen. Work with him!”
Lorenzo’s snarl deepens. “You’re a stupid woman. You know better than anyone that she and this boy can’t be together.”
Catarina leans over the desk, jabbing her finger into his chest. “I know far more than you think, Lorenzo. I’ve been in this world longer than you have, and if anyone can get our girl back, it’s Tommy. Right now, it’s not about who she marries; it’s about keeping her alive. If you won’t work with him, then let him go.”
His jaw flexes, eyes darting between us. For a heartbeat, I think he might agree. Then, his mouth twists into a sneer. “Even if things were different—even if Tommy were viable for Giovanna as a husband—I still wouldn’t trust him. He’s Aurelio’s son. Aurelio is a monster. And so is his blood.”
Catarina’s eyes flash. She inhales through her nose like she’s holding herself together by a thread. “You’ve done a lot of horrible things in our marriage,” she says softly. “But this is byfar the worst. If you do not at the very least release Tommy so that he and his brothers can find my daughter and bring her back home, I will never forgive you.”
The silence that hangs heavy in the room is thick enough to choke on. “You will not dictate how I run my business, Catarina.” Lorenzo’s voice is gruff, and he turns his gaze back to the papers on his desk.
Catarina picks up his scotch glass, mostly water now, and turns it upside down on his papers. He snorts and shakes his head but doesn’t look at either of us.
“You will regret this,” she says quietly.
In response, Lorenzo lifts his gaze between Catarina and I to his guards behind us. “Get them out of here,” he tells them.
Catarina whirls on them and slaps the hand of the man closest when he reaches for her. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
The guard stills and looks to Lorenzo for guidance. Lorenzo rolls his eyes, and dismisses Catarina and I with a wave.
When we leave his study, Catarina slams the door behind us and pulls me aside, gripping my forearm. Her perfume erases the lingering smell of leather and scotch.
“If I find out anything,” she whispers, “I’ll reach out to you directly. And if you need anything you think I can help with, you let me know, anytime, day or night.”
I nod, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat.
She doesn’t let go. Her eyes lock onto mine, unblinking, so intense it makes me uncomfortable holding her gaze. Finally she speaks, her voice breaking.
“I’m sorry, Tommy. For everything. For all this. For all these years of—” Her voice catches on a sob, and she looks up at the ceiling, exhaling long and slow. “Just know that I take full responsibility, and I will do whatever I can to fix this.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I don’t have time to handle the erratic emotions of Gi’s parents. “Mrs. Marino, thank you but—”
She squeezes my forearm. “Please don’t call me that. It’s just Catarina. And don’t thank me. I should be thanking you. Everyone in her life has failed her except for you. Please don’t stop loving her.”
I can’t stop the tremor in my voice. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
17
Giovanna
The room smells faintly of antiseptic and damp wood. A dull hum of fluorescent lights fills the air, along with the whir of a vent somewhere overhead.
I lie still on the bed, my eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling until it ripples and blurs. The camera’s red light blinks from the corner, steady and rhythmic. Always watching.
The door creaks open.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” The nurse’s voice is soft, careful, as if she’s afraid I might be alarmed. She’s maybe in her mid-sixties with tired eyes and hands that tremble slightly. She moves around me in quiet circles, cleaning up the tray from the night before, humming to herself.
I don’t answer. My throat burns from disuse.
