I run.
I sprint to where I left my car, breathing hard, heart pounding—and it's not from exertion. It's from the realization of what I've done. How badly I've fucked this up.
There's blood on my jacket, spatter across the shoulder. I strip it off, shove it in the trunk. The jeans will have to stay—I can't drive back to Manhattan in my underwear.
In the car, I check myself in the rearview mirror. Still a mess, but better.
She's in my head, in my blood. She's made me sloppy, weak, human.
I start the car and pull into traffic, driving carefully, under the speed limit. The last thing I need is to get pulled over with blood evidence all over me.
My phone buzzes. It's Don Marco.
I don't answer.
I should dump the car. Burn the clothes. Call him back with excuses that won't work.
Instead, I drive toward Tribeca, toward her.
I need to see her. Need to put my hands on her and confirm she's still there, still mine, still locked in my penthouse where I left her.
The drive feels endless. Every red light, every slow driver, every fucking second away from her scrapes against my nerves like a blade on bone.
When I finally pull into my building's garage, I take the private elevator straight to the penthouse. I unlock the door and the penthouse is quiet... too quiet.
The main space is empty—kitchen, living room, all of it. My pulse kicks up. I head down the hallway to her room.
Her door is still open. I left it unlocked, kept my word.
She's still there, sitting on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself, staring out the window. She's wearing the same clothes from this morning, hair still wild.
She's been trying to escape. Testing windows. Checking locks. Looking for any weakness in my cage. The tension radiates off her.
She's not going anywhere. She's never going anywhere. The sooner she understands that, the easier this will be for both of us.
"Francesca."
She turns her head to look at me. That's when I see the tear tracks on her face. I watch her take in the blood on my jeans, the way I'm breathing, the violence still clinging to me.
"You're back," she says, her voice carefully neutral.
Smart girl.
"I needed to see you." The words come out rough.
She doesn't look away. I watch fear and anger war across her face. And underneath—always underneath—that thing she won't acknowledge.
Then her gaze drops to my hands. They're clean—I wiped them on my jacket before I dumped it in the trunk—but she knows.
"Did you..." She stops, then swallows. "Is it done?"
"Yes."
She nods slowly, then wraps her arms tighter around herself like she's trying to hold herself together.
The tears are still there, tracking down her face.
Cazzo.
