Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
When I open the door, the scent of bleach, rust, and copper invades my nostrils. A solitary work light hangs from the ceiling, casting an orange glow over the space. As my eyes adjust and move around, I find Romeo leaning back against a workbench, smoking a blunt as he scrolls through his phone.
Maurizio is slumped against the chair in the center of the shed, labored breaths wheezing from his chest.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
“Don’t know,” Romeo grunts. “He’s half-dead.”
Irritation winds its way through me. It’s only been three days.
“Fucking pathetic,” I mutter. “Did you get anything out of him?”
At this, Maurizio cracks open his eyes and meets my gaze. He tries to laugh, but ends up in a coughing fit instead. When he attempts to speak a minute later, his mouth is too dry.
“Here.” Romeo tosses me a bottle of water.
I open it and splash it on Maurizio’s face, giving him enough to wet his tongue.
“Spit it out, old man.”
The corner of his lip twitches in an attempt at a smile. “She hasn’t told you.”
I offer him a blank stare, but he knows he’s under my skin. He decides to twist the knife a little deeper.
“I’m only sorry I won’t be here to see Abella destroy you,” he sputters. “I guess she was good for something after all.”
I glance at Romeo, and he shrugs. He doesn’t know what Maurizio’s talking about either.
“He told me Matteo was paying him for his silence,” Romeo says. “That’s as far as we got.”
My first thought is Maurizio must have known Matteo sent me to prison, and that’s why he was paying him off. But there has to be more to it than that. Abella factors into this somehow. If I’d only heard it from him, I might question it. But Carlo Pagnotto said something eerily similar as he was dying.
“He said they had a deal,” Romeo elaborates. “In his words, Matteo was a weak little bitch who couldn’t bring Abella to heel. So Maurizio turned on him and threatened to reveal their agreement to our family. Matteo made the payments to keep him quiet.”
“You should have killed her,” Maurizio chokes out. “You’ll get nothing else from me, and by the time you figure it out, it will already be too late.”
Calmly, I roll up my sleeves and grab a scalpel from the workbench.
“I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
34
ABELLA
Something stirs me from my sleep—a prickling awareness that I’m not alone, but when I glance at the space beside me, it’s still empty.
Moonlight filters in from outside, casting a blue glow over the room. I sit up, blinking at the shadowed silhouette in the reading chair near the window. For a moment, I wonder if I’m dreaming again. But as my eyes adjust, his details come into focus.
Angelo sits there quietly, his unwavering gaze locked on me. He’s freshly showered, wearing only a pair of black sweatpants. Tension stretches between us as silence lingers, and I don’t know what’s changed, but I can sense the shift in him.
This is Angelo—the god of war.
“Your father is dead.” His voice cuts through the room like a knife, the words heavy and final.
Now, I understand.
My father must have said something to him, and whatever it was, I doubt it bodes well for me. Unlike most people who would choose to reflect on their life and make peace before death, I can only imagine my father doing the opposite. He probably remained true to his evil nature up until the bitter end, adding salt to all the wounds he’d already inflicted.
“Are you coming to bed?” I whisper.
Angelo stares at me for a long moment before he rises from his seat. He moves toward me with deliberate slowness, closing in on me like a predator would its prey. I curl my knees into my chest as he pauses next to the bed, his frame towering over me, his face a blank mask.
“Are we still playing games, cara?” He grazes my jaw so lightly, it feels like a trap.
I want to soak up every ounce of his warmth, but he didn’t come here to comfort me.
“That’s fine,” he says, his voice deceptively soft. “We can play games if you want. But you should know I always win.”
There’s no question his words are a threat, and I should take them as such. But the fact that he’s still willing to play the game means he doesn’t know the truth. There’s still time, as fleeting as it may be, before that secret destroys us.
If I tell him now, it’s over. And as selfish as it may be, I’m not ready for that yet. So I’ll play this game with him a little longer, collecting memories of him while I still can. Perhaps, when I’m alone, they’ll keep me warm when he no longer will.