Chapter Seventeen

Adele

I'm still frozen in shock when Dante's man ushers me into the back of another SUV, frozen until the door slams shut with a finality that makes me flinch, the sound echoing loudly in the confined space.

For a moment, all I can hear is my own ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart against my ribcage. Each beat is a painful reminder that I'm alive while Hulky . . . isn't.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn't help. Dante's face haunts me—the anguish etched into his chiseled features, the tears glistening in his stormy gray eyes and the raw grief and rage radiating from his body. And Pietro, reduced to scattered pieces on the pavement.

All because of me.

The SUV's interior suddenly feels suffocating. I press my palm against the window, feeling the cool glass against my skin. Outside, the city lights blur as we drive.

We're moving at a speed that should terrify me, the force pressing me back into the seat. But I'm too numb to care. Dante's man is a wall of barely contained emotion. In the moonlight filtering through the tinted windows, I see the rigid set of his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip he has on the steering wheel, and his jaw so tight a muscle ticks reflexively.

The silence is charged with unspoken accusations. This man and Hulky worked together. Maybe they were even friends. The memory of the glint of gold on Pietro's finger flashes in my mind. Hulky had a wife. Did he have children too?

Guilt claws at me, threatening to choke me. I need to say something, anything, to break this suffocating silence.

"Red Wine," I murmur, the phrase foreign and heavy on my tongue. I've heard Dante and his men use that phrase more than once, so it must mean something to them. Or maybe it's just a foolish, desperate attempt to get a reaction from this man who must surely hate me.

His dark, haunted eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, widening slightly in surprise. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

"I'm so sorry," I finally choke out past the lump in my throat. "I'm so terribly sorry."

The man's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "It's Sal," he says, his voice gentler than I expected.

"What?"

"My name is Salvatore. You can call me Sal."

I nod, grateful he's talking to me.

His eyes flicker back to the road before meeting mine again in the mirror. "And Red Wine is the code name Don and Dante call you."

His words sink in slowly, each one a pebble dropping into the still pond of my shock. Dante and the Don have a code name for me. They talk about me. That sends a mix of fear and something else down my spine.

But the guilt is quick to follow, a bitter reminder of the price of my presence in Dante's life. What would the Don think of me now, the woman who caused the death of one of his loyal soldiers?

My lids slide shut, spilling out hot, salty tears. If only I had listened to Daddy—Benjamin. If only I'd never left Boston like he warned, none of this would have happened.

He was telling the truth. Someone is really out to get me.

The fact makes me double over in pain, my forehead almost touching my knees, arms wrapped tightly around my midsection as if I could hold myself together through sheer force of will.

"Oh God. It should have been me," I mutter. "It should have been me."

"Addy!" Sal's voice is like a whip, snapping me out of my guilt-ridden chant. I straighten and his eyes meet mine again in the rearview mirror. "I don't think you realize how lucky we all are that it wasn't you."

His words are drowned out by the ugly voice in my head screaming that this is all my fault. The stench of smoke and rubber from the explosion clings to me and Sal, a constant reminder. It's in my hair, on my dress, on Sal. My lungs burn with the need for fresh air, for escape.

And suddenly, I can't breathe anymore.

"Stop the car," I gasp, my voice tight with panic.

"I can't do that, Addy," Sal says, but his words barely register. The need to get out, to escape the guilt and fear, beats down on me. My fingers scrabble clumsily at the door handle but it's locked.

"Please, Sal," I plead, bile rising in my throat. I clamp a hand over my mouth, my stomach roiling. "I'm . . . I'm going to be sick."

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, with a curse, Sal wrenches the steering wheel to the right. The SUV lurches, tires screeching against the pavement as we veer off the road. The sudden movement sends me sliding across the leather seat, my shoulder slamming into the door.

Before the vehicle has fully stopped, I fumble with the door handle. This time, it gives way, and I tumble onto the rough asphalt. The impact jars through my body, but I barely notice. I'm too focused on the burning in my throat, the acid taste in my mouth.

On my hands and knees, I retch violently. The contents of my stomach splatter onto the ground, the acidic smell mixing with the exhaust fumes. I heave until there's nothing left, until I'm bringing up nothing but bitter bile.

My body shakes with the force of my sobs, tears streaming down my face to mingle with the mess on the ground.

I'm vaguely aware of Sal a few yards away, a silent shadow in the darkness. The cool night air raises goosebumps on my skin, a stark contrast to the heat of shame burning through me.

When the heaving finally subsides, I remain on all fours, gasping for breath. My arms tremble with the effort of holding myself up, my hair hanging limply around my face. I've never felt so utterly wretched, so completely undone.

After what feels like an eternity, I hear Sal's footsteps approaching. He crouches down beside me, and when I finally gather the courage to look up, he's holding out a bottle of cold water, his face filled with quiet concern.

With shaking hands, I take the water and rinse my mouth then drink, the cool liquid soothing my raw throat.

"Thank you," I whisper hoarsely.

Sal nods. "Think you can stand?"

"Yes," I say, though I'm not entirely sure I can. When I wobble on my feet, Sal puts an arm around my waist and guides me back to the SUV.

The car feels less confining now, more of a sanctuary from the harsh reality outside. As Sal shuts the door and rounds the vehicle to the driver's side, I lean my forehead against the cool window.

We continue on in silence, the only sounds are my ragged breathing and the muffled rumble of the engine. I close my eyes, and my thoughts center on Dante. Need, hot and fierce burns inside me. It's the same inexplicable heat I felt when I saw him roar in anguish at the parking lot. I want to be with him right now.

Soon, the glittering city lights fade, replaced by sprawling estates and perfectly manicured lawns. We pass through wrought iron gates emblazoned with a large crest and start up a winding driveway, but I barely notice them.

Not until a mansion rises high out of the ground and above us do I sit up and look at a fortress of stone and glass. The silhouette of turrets and high walls stands out against the night sky. The moon casts a silver glow over the landscape, highlighting the gnarled branches of ancient trees and rolling hills.

"Where are we?" My words come out as a hoarse whisper, my throat raw from crying.

"Dante's family home," Sal answers as he takes a detour off the winding driveway to the side of the main building. He stops in front of what seems like a solid stone wall, but as Sal gets out and gestures for me to follow, I realize it's a hidden door.

My legs feel like lead as I exit the car, the cool night air a refreshing balm on my heated face and stuffy nose. Immediately, the door opens to reveal an extremely tall man with snow-white hair and a stooped posture. He ushers us inside quickly, his movements sharp and efficient despite his age. He and Sal only exchange nods as he stands to the side, and Sal leads me deeper into the dimly lit hallway.

The old man, the house butler, perhaps, shrinks into the shadows as we pass, but when I glance back, his eyes are wide with shock as he stares at me. Unnerved, I turn away and follow Sal into the maze of corridors, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm in my chest.

The carpets muffle our steps as we move deeper into the mansion, taking flights of stairs down. This house seems like a scene straight out of a gothic novel, with cold stone walls and sconces of flickering yellow light casting eerie shadows. The air hangs heavy with an oppressive silence, as if the mansion itself is holding its breath.

Sal guides me through the maze of corridors, his hand a steady pressure on the small of my back. Finally, he stops before an ornate door, its dark wood gleaming in the low light. He pushes it open, and I step inside, my breath catching in my throat.

It's a large but windowless room, having air conditioning vents in the walls instead. A king-sized bed dominates the space, its dark silk sheets an invitation to indulge in luxury. But it's the mirrors that catch my eye—floor-to-ceiling, they reflect the room back at me.

"You'll be safe here," Salvatore says. He gestures to an intercom panel just beside the bed. "Food, clothes, anything at all, just call. Falzone, the old butler, will get you anything you need."

I nod my thanks. Although right now, the only thing I need is Dante. His absence is starting to feel like a hollow space in my chest.

As Salvatore turns to leave, I reach out, my trembling hand grasping at the sleeve of his suit.

"Sal," I say, my voice breaking, "What about Dante? Will I see him tonight?" I hate the neediness in my voice, but I can't mask it.

Sal shakes his head, and my heart sinks. "He's grieving, Addy," he says gently. "He loved Pietro like a brother."

But that is exactly what I want. I want his grief, his pain. I want him raw and uncontrolled.

"Please, I need to see him. Need to . . ." I trail off, unsure how to put into words the dark hunger that gnaws at me.

I want to take away his pain, even if it means taking it into myself. To be the one to comfort him, to soothe him. To let him use me . . . hurt me . . . break me.

The thought terrifies me, even as it sends a dark thrill through my veins. I don't understand it. I don't want to understand it. All I know is that I crave Dante with an intensity that borders on madness. My fingers tighten on Sal's sleeve, knuckles white with the force of my grip.

Sal's dark eyes meet mine, and something like understanding flickers in their depths. He gently pries my fingers loose. "Give him time, Addy," he says, not unkindly. "He'll come and see you. The Don is away, so Dante is sorting out the mess and making sure everyone else is safe."

I feel another pang of guilt. I'm so wrapped up in my head that I forgot about the others. And Kira . . . God, Kira. Vulnerable in the chaos because of her lack of sight. The rest of her DJ friends. In danger because of me.

"Kira?" I lick my dry lips, tasting salt from dried tears. "Is she okay . . .?"

Sal's gaze softens further as he assures me, "Kira is safe. She was inside the club when . . ." He trails off, his jaw clenching, and I know he's thinking about Hulky.

My stomach twists, and I swallow a wave of nausea and I try to focus on the present, to be grateful for the people who are still alive.

"Get some rest, okay?" Sal says, his hand briefly squeezing my shoulder. Then he turns and starts to leave.

"Sal?" I croak.

He pauses at the door, waiting.

"What was his full name?"

He stays silent for a long time, and I start to think he won't respond when he says on a soft exhale. "His name was Pietro. Pietro Potenza."

And then all I hear is the sound of the door softly closing behind Sal.

And I'm left alone with my thoughts and the accusing stares of my reflections.

In the end, I can't bear the softness of the bed or the luxury surrounding me. So I curl up on the carpet instead, my knees hugged to my chest. I rock back and forth, my mind spinning with dark thoughts and darker desires.

I need Dante. Yearn for his hands on me, his body against mine. I want him to hurt me, to punish me, to absolve me.

My fingers dig into my arms, leaving crescent-shaped marks on my skin. I welcome the pain, a poor substitute for what I truly crave.

And so I wait, lost in the labyrinth of my shockingly twisted longing. The ornate clock on the mantel ticks away the seconds, each one an eternity. The mirrors reflect my huddled form, multiplying my misery, but sleep eludes me.

The only way I can cope with the crushing guilt is to imagine Dante striding through those doors. To imagine his hands on me, gentle at first, then bruising hard. His lips on my skin, teeth marking me, making me forget, just for a moment, the horror of what's happened.