“I should be with Elio,” I protest, trying to get up from the bed, but John Angelo shakes his head. “Please, I need to make sure he’s all right. He was so scared yet so brave.” My little prince ran to Hailey like I told him, and he was sobbing and shaking when I found him hidden in her kiosk. I hugged him close, dotting kisses into his hair and rubbing his back, his arms, his legs, trying to get warmth into him because the poor child was freezing and clearly traumatized. I whispered reassuring words, trying to comfort him until he was forcibly taken from my arms by Umberto.
“Umberto is with him,” John Angelo reminds me for the umpteenth time from his position on the floor. My jeans have been cut to my knee, and I’m lying on my side while he’s holding on to my lower leg as he searches for the bullet in my calf. “Hold still.”
I purposely let my mind wander to distract me from the pain as he probes my bloody wound. It was chaos at the park, and police were swarming all over the place as we left. I don’t know how we got away without giving statements, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the cops were on the mafia’s payroll. Isn’t that usually how things work in gangster movies?
Briefly, I wonder if I’ll be arrested for Diego’s death. I wouldn’t even contest it. Like I said before, I deserve to be locked up. Truth is, it might be the safest option now I know the cartel will be gunning for me. I have to get out of here before they make a follow-up move. I won’t risk Elio and Cristian any more than I have.
“I think I see the bullet.” John Angelo looks up at me. “You know what to do.”
Stuffing the rolled-up cloth in my mouth, I bite down hard on it, using it to muffle my screams of agony as the bodyguard rummages around in my bloody calf.
“Got it.” He holds up the tweezers containing a mangled bullet as I slump forward, breathing heavily as my calf throbs.
“She’s going to bleed out all over the floor.” Vincenzo’s suspicious gaze fixes on the hole in my leg that’s now gushing blood. His arm is in a sling from a bullet injury he picked up in the park. John Angelo removed that one first.
“Leave it.” I shrug. “I’ll just clean it and wrap a bandage around it.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” John Angelo stands. “It could get infected.” He glances over his shoulder at the other bodyguard. “Grab me some more cloths, a bowl of warm water, and the first aid kit from the kitchen. Check with Umberto while you’re out there. See if we’ve had any update from the hospital.”
Pain has a vise grip on my heart, but tears don’t come. I don’t think I have any more tears left to fall. I’m weirdly numb. It’s probably shock, because I’m remarkably calm as I wait for Cristian to return. It’s quite possible he might kill me. I can’t find it in myself to care. I deserve to die. Elio was almost kidnapped by the cartel today, and it’s all my fault. If Clint doesn’t pull through his life-saving surgery, his death will be on my conscience too.
Vincenzo looks like he wants to argue, but he leaves my bedroom after a tense face-off between both bodyguards. John Angelo goes into the en suite bathroom, returning with a wet cloth and a towel. I grit my teeth as he mops up the blood, cussing under his breath. “You should be at the hospital.” His brow puckers as he stares up at me from his position on the floor. “But I’ll have to do. You need stitches, girl. It’s going to hurt a lot.”
“Good.” I nod but offer nothing else.
“What’s going on, Sloane?”
I feel dead on the inside as I stare at him. “Do you ever wish you had a time machine so you could go back and do everything differently?”
“Doubt there’s a human alive who hasn’t thought that at one time or another.”
“I wish I could go back to June of last year and not step foot in that bar.”
“What bar?” he asks, frowning as Vincenzo slips back into the room carrying the requested items.
Vincenzo stalls, looking between me and his colleague with fresh suspicion. From the moment I was carried into my bedroom, he has stalked my movements with mistrustful eyes, almost like he wishes I’d do something so he has an excuse to shoot me. Perhaps I should give him a reason. He whispers something in John Angelo’s ear as he off-loads the supplies. John Angelo nods, proceeding to clean my cut without uttering another word.
I almost pass out as he stitches the wound, and I’m panting and sweating by the time he’s done. “Take these.” He drops two pain pills into my hand along with a bottle of water, waiting until I swallow them before saying, “The boss will be here in ten minutes. You should freshen up.”
The pain is incredible when he helps me to my feet, but I push him away, hobbling toward my closet to grab clean clothes.
“Going somewhere, Sloane?” Vincenzo hisses when he spots my packed bag on the floor of the closet.
“It’s not what you think,” I mumble, opening the bag and pulling out a pair of sweats, a hoodie, clean underwear, a ball cap, and my purse. I can’t leave without my wallet and ID.
“Isn’t it?” he snarls, glaring at me like he wants to snap my neck.
I could try telling him, but what’s the point? He’s not the one who deserves the truth, and I only have enough strength in me to tell it once. Concealing the purse under the clothes, I limp past a scowling Vincenzo and walk into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind me before he can come in.
Instant shouting tickles my eardrums as the bodyguards go head-to-head, but I can’t make out what they’re saying through the door. It’s obvious Cristian already suspects me of something. There’s no other explanation for the way I’ve been separated from Elio, had my gun confiscated, and been forcibly confined to my room. Once again, I have fucked up. I should’ve demanded Cristian stay this morning and listen to me. If we’d talked, everything would have gone down differently today.
There isn’t time for a shower, so I wash my face and body with a cloth, careful not to get the bandage wet. After drying myself, I redress in clean clothes and brush my hair back off my face, smoothing it into a high ponytail that fits in the gap at the back of the ball cap. I stuff my wallet and passport in the pocket of my sweats and discard the purse.
“Sloane.” Fists pound on the door. “Time to come out. Don DiPietro is here.”
Drawing a deep breath, I face myself in the mirror, hating what I see. Whatever happens now, I deserve everything that comes my way. My fate lies in Cristian’s hands. If he kills me, then it’s meant to be. If he lets me go, I could give myself up to the cartel, let them torture me or kill me as an apt punishment, but I know Mom wouldn’t want that. She’d want me to survive, so I’ll give it my all if I live through this day. I will fight to survive—even though I have lost the will to live—for my mom. So her sacrifice isn’t in vain.
Steeling my nerves, I walk out of the bathroom, dragging my aching leg behind me as the two bodyguards escort me to the kitchen.
Cristian is waiting by the island unit. His lethally cold gaze snags mine, and I stop breathing. Cristian has always had this magnetic presence that has called to me, comforted me, and protected me. But not now. Now, the molecules around him twist into sharpened daggers ready to strike me down upon his command. Tension is rife in the air as he stalks toward me like a hunter primed to make the winning kill.
The pain in my leg is nothing compared to the pain in my heart as his dark glare shreds me on the spot. His fingers grip my chin painfully, and his nostrils flare as eyes that once looked at me with so much love and compassion pierce me with nothing but vicious contempt. “I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer truthfully.”
I try to nod, but his grip on my chin is too firm and my head barely moves.
“Did the cartel send you here?”
“Yes.”
A muscle clenches in his jaw, and his eyes burn with pure malice as his fingers dig into my skin.
“Why?”
“They wanted information on drug distribution routes, and they wanted me to seduce you and then help them to kill you.”
I’m not surprised when the muzzle of a gun is pressed into my brow. Cristian forces my back to the refrigerator, curling his finger around the trigger of his gun as he glares at me. For a fleeting second, the darkness fades, and I see the pain he’s trying so hard to hide.
“Do it,” I whisper. “I deserve it, but you should know I couldn’t let them hurt you. I—”
“They tried to take my son!” he roars, pressing the gun harder into my brow.
“That wasn’t part of the plan. I would never let them take Elio. I—”
“Shut your lying fucking mouth.” His free hand covers my lips. “You faked your way into my home, my bed. You were very convincing. I’ll give you that.”
I try to tell him it wasn’t fake, but my words are muffled by his hand.
“Should I write to Yale and tell them you deserve your degree because you delivered the performance of a lifetime, or should I riddle your deceiving body with bullets and toss your carcass into the Hudson?”
“Shoot me,” I say with my mouth and my eyes. At least all the pain would end.
“Were you planning to slit my throat while I slept, or did the cartel want the honor of killing me themselves?”
Staring straight at him, I beseech him to see the truth in my eyes. That I love him. That I could never kill him. That I failed and signed my mother’s death warrant to protect him and Elio. But even if I could speak, there’s no point. He wouldn’t hear it, and I don’t blame him.
If the tables were turned, I’d kill me too.
His finger curls a little tighter around the trigger as he continues prodding my forehead with the gun while turmoil spreads across his face.
“Do it, boss,” Vincenzo says.
“Shut the fuck up,” Cristian snaps, never taking his eyes off mine.
A strange sense of peace settles over me, and my body relaxes. If I’m going to die, I’d rather it be at Cristian’s hands than the cartel’s. At least my love will make it quick.
I try to convey everything I’m feeling with my eyes: It’s okay. I understand. I forgive you. I love you. I hope, in time, you won’t hate yourself for this. Tell Elio I love him and I’ll miss him, but he’ll have a guardian angel watching over him from now on—if God doesn’t boot me out of heaven.
Sweat beads on his brow as he stares at me. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. Indecision flickers in his eyes. “Fuckkkkk!” he yells before lowering the gun and his hand from my mouth. He steps back, grabbing fistfuls of his hair as he paces in front of me. “I trusted you,” he yells, glaring at me. “I trusted you with my son, with my heart. How could you do this?”
“I’m so sorry. I had—”
“No.” His fingers pinch my lips closed. “I’ll hear no more lies.”
Emotion disappears from his face as icy darkness swallows him whole. He’s every bit a dangerous mafia killer when he levels me with a malevolent look that lifts all the fine hairs from my arms. “Get out and stay out. If I see you again, I won’t hesitate next time. Show your face in New York, and you’re dead, Sloane.”
