I gather my ruined dress around me, and tie it together so that it looks like something that might resemble passable. Standing takes effort. Walking takes more. But I make my way down the hall, the thumbprint still in my hand.
And somehow, my feet carry me to his door.
The fingerprint lock glows softly, beckoning me.
Maybe I can still undo everything. Maybe I can have one more moment. One more hour. One more kiss.
No.
The word is quiet in my mind, but absolute.
I can't. I shouldn't. Iwon't.
The thumbprint falls from my fingers. It lands on the floor outside his door without a sound, but in my heart, I can hear a heavy thud, like a coffin lid closing.
He'll find it when he comes out. He'll know I was here. He'll know I had the key to his room and chose not to use it.
I hope he understands what that means.
I hope he understands that leaving him is not the same as not loving him.
The Lyft driverdoesn't ask why I’m crying when he picks me up.
He also doesn’t ask why my dress looks like it’s been tied back together, or why my hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip my purse strap. He just drives on with the same blind indifference all New York drivers have, while his eyes occasionally glance at me, as if to say“please don't throw up in my car.”
Small mercies.
I give him five stars when he pulls up to my building. Because no amount of emotional trainwreck excuses poor Lyft etiquette.
My legs feel like they belong to someone who didn't just have the man she loves fuck her like he was trying to cut her out of his soul, and who didn’t just lie there on the ground andmakehim walk away, because she was too much of a coward to say the one word that would have stopped everything.
By the time I reach my door, the only thing I want to do is draw a hot bath, and have a good hard cry before I figure out just what the fuck I am going to do next.
I reach for my keys and my hand freezes halfway to the door.
Something's wrong.
I can't point to a specific detail that's out of place. Nothing looks out of place. But there's a prickle at the back of my neck—that animal instinct whisperingdangereven when your rational brain hasn't caught up yet.
My fingers close around my keys anyway, because there’s no alternative. I unlock the door, push it open, and immediately wish that I hadn’t.
There arearmed men all over my apartment.
Two by the kitchen, one by the window, and one slides in behind me to cut me off from the door I just walked through.
Lydia is kneeling on the floor, bound with zip ties and gagged with a dish towel. Dark protective rage burns away any thought of feeling sorry for myself, and it doubles when I spot fuckingNicostanding behind her.
Of fucking course he betrayed me again.
But there’s something different in his amber eyes as I glare at him. His hands are draped over Lydia’s shoulders, and there’s an almost protective way in how he holds her still.
Almost like he doesn’t want to be here.
And sitting in the center of the room, with Anthony on his lap, is Don Leo.
"Hello,ragazza." He licks his lips. The wet sound of it turns my stomach. "Come in, come in. Sit. We have much to discuss, you and I."
"I'll stand."
