My vision blurs for a second as the images load. They’re fresh. Recent. I can tell by the dress Laura is wearing—the one I sent her for her birthday. There are photos of her in the garden. Photos of her sleeping. And then a video.
It’s short. Ten seconds. She’s sitting at the piano, her small fingers stumbling over a scale. She looks up and smiles at the camera—at someone she thinks is a friend.
"She’s practicing her scales, Gia," my father murmurs, his voice a poisonous lullaby. "She wants to play for you when you come home. She asks about you every day. She wants to know if you've forgotten her. If you’ve traded her life for the life of a Caruso."
"Stop it," I whisper, the tablet trembling in my hands. "Please, just stop."
"I don't have to stop. I have forty-eight hours. The Irish are impatient, and my patience is a finite resource." He leans in, his scent—cold marble and old blood—filling the car. "If I don't have the codes and the verified timing for the summit by tomorrow night, Laura won't be practicing her scales anymore."
"You wouldn't," I sob, the tears finally breaking through. "She's your daughter. She's nine years old!"
"She is a De Luca. And De Lucas are only as valuable as the loyalty they provide." He takes the tablet back, his touch clinical. "Rafael Caruso is a soldier. He knows the risks of this life. But Laura? She’s an innocent. Her blood will be on your hands, Gia. Not mine.”
I feel the emotional fracture deepen, a physical sensation of my soul being torn in two. I look at the dark glass of the window, seeing my own reflection—the silk dress, the jewelry Rafael gave me, the face of a woman who is about to murder the man she loves to save the sister she can't live without.
"I need more time," I gasp, my breath coming in shallow hitches.
"Time is over. Forty-eight hours, Gia. Or the red dot hits zero. Get the codes. Give them to me or watch her die."
"I'll... I'll get them," I whisper, the words sounding like a death sentence. "I'll get you the rest of the verification. Just... don't touch her. Please."
"Don't disappoint me again," Salvatore says.
He nods to the driver. The door opens.
I stumble out, the cold air hitting my face like a slap. I stand there in the dark parking lot, my chest heaving, the world spinning around me. I walk back toward the side exit, my movements mechanical. I have to get back. I have to find Rafael.
I slip back into the club, the bass hitting me like a physical blow. I find the restroom and lock myself in a stall, leaning my forehead against the cold metal door. I stay there until my breathing slows. I fix my lipstick, the red stain looking like a smear of blood against my pale skin.
When I walk back into the salon, Rafael is waiting. He’s standing by the bar, his eyes scanning the crowd with a predator's focus until they land on me. The relief that flashes across his face—the raw, unguarded worry—is almost more than I can bear.
"You're late," he says, his hand already reaching for my waist the second I’m within range. He pulls me flush against his side, his thumb grazing my hip. "Twelve minutes, Gia. I was about to call in the air strike. Where the hell were you?"
"The line was long," I say, my voice steady, my sass a shield for the rot inside. "And I had to fix my lipstick. You’re very hard on my makeup, Rafael. I had to ensure I still looked like a 'Caruso' and not a disaster."
He laughs, a low, warm sound that vibrates through my shoulder, and pulls me even closer. He kisses my forehead, his lips lingering on my skin. "You could never look like a disaster. But you're right. I am hard on you. Maybe I’ll be even harder tonight, once we're home."
The heat in his eyes is a promise of everything I’m about to steal from him. I look at the glitter of the party, at the men he trusts, at the man who would die for me.
"Dance with me," I whisper, grabbing the lapels of his jacket. "I don't want to talk anymore. I just want to move."
"Whatever little Gia wants," he murmurs, leading me toward the floor.
As we move together, his hand firm on my back and his eyes locked on mine, I realize that the clock hasn't just hit zero for Laura. It’s hit zero for us. I’m dancing with a dead man, and I’m the one who led him to the gallows.
CHAPTER 35
GIA
"You’re a lot prettier up close, Mrs. Caruso. I was beginning to think Rafael was keeping you locked away because he was afraid of the competition."
The voice is thick, smelling of expensive gin and a level of entitlement that only comes with a very large bank account and a very small amount of common sense. I don’t recognize the man—some minor associate from the northern territories, no doubt—but I recognize the look in his eyes. It’s the same predatory sheen I saw on Cosimo Arcuri right before he’d decide to remind me I was his property.
He’s been talking for five minutes and I’ve been trying to get rid of him. He either doesn’t care or he’s too stupid to realize I don’t want him near me. Or both.
Rafael went to talk to a business partner five minutes ago and this bastard won’t leave me alone.
"I’m not locked away," I say, my voice sliding into that cool, sharp register that usually acts as a deterrent. "I’m simply selective about the company I keep."
