Chapter Thirty-Six

Adele

The rhythmic thud of my fists against the punching bag echoes through the empty gym, a steady beat that matches the pounding of my heart. Sweat trickles down my back, soaking into the fabric of my sports bra.

I throw another jab, feeling the satisfying impact reverberate up my arm. My muscles ache, protesting the repetitive motion, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

It's been five days since Dante left for Detroit, and the physical exertion is the only thing keeping me sane. Well, that and the constant reminder that I'm going to see the spawn of Chicago's most dangerous today. Talk about life goals.

The gym is eerily quiet without Dante's presence. No low, encouraging murmurs as he corrects my form. No playful banter as we spar. Just the sound of my labored breathing and the creaking of the chain that suspends the punching bag. I knew it would be hard, but I didn't expect to miss him this much.

Or resent being off-grid this deeply. When he gets back, we're so going to have a chat about this arrangement.

"It was fun while it lasted, Signore, but playing dead is no longer working for me," I imagine saying to him.

I execute a particularly vicious right hook and a sudden wave of dizziness washes over me. The room tilts alarmingly, the polished wood floor seeming to rise up to meet me. I stumble, catching myself on the edge of the bag. The rough leather scrapes against my palm as I lean into it, trying to steady myself.

And then the now-familiar craving for ice hits me out of nowhere. It's an all-consuming need, as if every cell in my body is crying out for it. I can almost taste it—the cold, crisp sensation as it melts on my tongue. My mouth waters at the thought, even as frustration bubbles up inside me.

Despite the pregnancy vitamins lined up neatly on my bathroom counter, this craving won't leave me alone. It's always there, lurking at the edges of my consciousness, ready to pounce at the slightest moment of weakness.

I rest my forehead against the punching bag, trying to catch my breath. My heart is racing, whether from exertion or the sudden onset of the craving, I'm not sure. Probably both.

I was hoping Dante would be back in time for our workout this morning. Thanks to being dead, he hasn't contacted me again since he left, and I have only Nico's constant reassurance that he's fine.

I hate not having access to him.

The craving intensifies, pushing all other thoughts aside. It's a physical ache now, impossible to ignore. I give in, unwrapping my hands with trembling fingers. The tape clings to my skin, sticky with sweat, and I have to peel it off slowly.

Breaking my routine feels wrong, like I'm admitting defeat. But the need for ice overrides everything else. I head for the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the cool marble floors.

The halls of the mansion are quiet, the early morning sun casting long shadows through the tall windows. Since that first morning when we had breakfast, I've found that everyone pretty much does their own thing in the morning and lunchtime and that morning's attempt at breakfast was exactly as Dante called it: A sham.

As I enter the kitchen, I find Aydin standing at the corner of the island. She's bent over and sniffing but straightens as soon as she realizes she's no longer alone.

"Aydin?"

"Addy . . . um, Signorina O'She—" she stutters, her usually steady and unreadable voice trembling.

"Aydin, please, just Addy," I reply, suddenly self-conscious of my sweat-soaked workout clothes and messy hair.

Without a word, she grabs a glass and teabag, pours some hot water, then darts to the fridge for some ice, and the soft whoosh of the door opens, filling the silence. She returns with a glass mug, condensation already beading on its surface.

"Cold tea on the rocks," she says, offering it to me with a smile. Her eyes are clear and dry, almost as if I imagined her crying earlier.

I accept it gratefully. The ice clinks against my teeth as I take a long sip, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat. It's not quite the same as crunching on pure ice, but it helps take the edge off the craving.

"Thank you," I murmur, leaning against the counter. "Are you okay, Aydin?"

Aydin nods, turning back to resume polishing the marble counter, and I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.

I watch her work, struck by the easy familiarity with which she moves through the space. It occurs to me that I know very little about Kira's mother, who seems to be everywhere at once in the mansion.

"How long have you been with the family, Aydin?" I ask.

She pauses to look up at me. "Fifteen years."

Wow. Fifteen years. That means Aydin must have known Dante since he was sixteen. When he was ‘the black sheep,' as he said. Aydin must have watched Dante grow from a rowdy teenager into the man he is now. She probably knows Dante better than anyone.

"You must know Dante very well," I say, trying to keep my voice casual.

Aydin's lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. "I've known Signor Dante for a long time, yes."

I take another sip of my tea, the ice cubes clinking against the glass. "I miss him," I blurt out, surprising myself with the admission, but I immediately regret my words.

Should I be talking to Aydin about my feelings for Dante? Although why not? Aydin would have to be deaf, blind, and practically dead not to know how physical Dante and I are.

Sophie too, is just as affectionate with Nico and is very friendly with Aydin. But I notice she never talks about her relationship with Nico unless I ask. But surely that's just her right?

Aydin's expression softens slightly, a flicker of something—sympathy? understanding?—passing through her eyes. "The war has escalated," she says gently. "I'm afraid Dante may not make it today."

My eyes widen in surprise at her words, but somehow I can't believe that. "I'm sure he'll let me know himself if anything changes."

"He is letting you know now," Aydin says, her voice kind but firm. "I wasn't going to tell you until later. I begged him to write a note like before but . . . he couldn't do it."

Apprehension slithers down my back like drops of icy water along with an emotion I don't care to name but I know I detest. "What do you mean he couldn't do it?"

Aydin takes a deep breath. "Dante finds the dark aspects of this work revolting, although there's no one as brilliant as him at executing it. So whenever he has to deal with blood and gore, he wants to spare those he loves from the monster, if you will, he becomes."

Mild irritation starts to churn in my gut and I get the urge to turn and walk out of the kitchen yet I find myself asking, "Is he violent when he's like that?"

"Oh no, nothing like that. He's just distant . . . emotionally flat."

"He's not emotionally flat." I snap.

"You haven't seen him when he's doing those things. He retreats to this place . . . you just want to reach out to him, but hardly lets in anyone."

Tears sting my eyes. So he should leave. But even as the thought occurs to me, I know he can't. Dante Vitelli might as well have the Outfit growing out of his heart. To separate him from it would be a physical death.

He can't leave.

"I love him. Every part of him." I say, already done with the conversation. Something about it makes me feel like I'm sneaking behind Dante's back to dig for information about him. Besides, I'm still not convinced we're talking about the same person.

The Dante I know is different from the moody, conflicted man Aydin is painting. The dominant lover who demands my trust and craves my obedience, who laughs at my terrible jokes, who looks at me like I'm the most precious thing in the world, is unapologetically bad. And he's comfortable in his skin.

Part of me wants to stay and argue, to tell Aydin that she's wrong and doesn't know him at all. That he's not the same boy she used to know, but I respect her years of experience too much to dismiss her words outright.

Plus, arguing with the staff about Dante's personality seems like a great way to win the ‘Worst Mafia Girlfriend' award.

As I turn to leave, Aydin's words stop me.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

I shrug without turning. "No, I don't. But it's alright. That's your opinion. It's just . . . it doesn't at all sound like Dante."

"There's something else you may not know," Aydin's voice drops slightly as if sharing confidence. "Dante has ADHD—Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder."

That makes me stop. I turn back to Aydin. Dante has told me in so many words that he's neurodiverse. But I had no idea he ever had an actual diagnosis.

Seeing she has my full attention, Aydin continues. "He was almost unmanageable. He wouldn't sleep. He wouldn't tire. And he just wouldn't stop."

"Stop what?"

Aydin throws her arms out. "Everything. Anything he wanted to do. He was medicated for years, although the medicines never seemed to make any difference. Over the years, he's changed, but sometimes he can come across as having many facets to his personality."

Aydin pauses to take a breath. "You might notice some quirks when he's excited or stressed, which disappear when those impulses are controlled. With loud music, for example."

Tears spring to my eyes as I grab the counter for support.

I don't know much about ADHD, but a surge of protectiveness wells within me. I don't see what that has to do with Dante coming to see me today, and I fail to see why she would even need to bring that up with me. Sophie must know, yet never told me anything.

Still, I can't help all the emotions this news rouses inside me.

Guilt that I found this out behind his back, anger at Aydin for an unwanted, possibly irrelevant exposition of a painful, chaotic childhood.

Gratitude for some insight into the man I love.

A searing hurt deep in my chest that Dante hadn't told me this himself. Or maybe he would have with time but thanks to Aydin, I'll never know.

But above all, I feel a fierce, uncontrollable desire to just be with Dante. To be whatever he needs right now.

"Thank you for telling me," I say, putting away my glass of tea. The ice has mostly melted now, leaving the drink watery and unsatisfying. The craving for pure, crunchy ice is starting to resurface.

I'm about to make an excuse to leave, to retreat back to the sanctuary of my room when Aydin drops another bombshell.

"He's in Chicago, you know. He arrived this morning. He won't come here, though. Nico has declared full retaliation against the Irish, and Dante is leaving for Boston tomorrow. He'll be gone until the war is over. Two, maybe three weeks."

Panic grips me hard. Three weeks? I can't wait that long to see him.

"How do you know Nico has declared a war?" I manage to speak past the lump in my throat.

Aydin only shrugs and turns away.

I feel a frisson of unease. I think it's wildly inappropriate that Aydin knows so much about the Outfit's plans. Does Dante know that his father's house staff are aware of his itinerary?

Suddenly, I can't wait to see him. Even if he can't be emotionally available, surely he'll be interested to know that the Fortress isn't as safe as he thinks it is.

"I'd like to see him."

Aydin shakes her head. "I can try to get him to scribble a note, but he won't come here."

"But I can go to him. Can you get me to him?" I hate the desperation in my voice and the fact that I'm having to reach a man I love through a go-between who, frankly, is pissing me off by how much she seems to know about everything. But I have no choice or pride left at this point. I want to see Dante too much to care.

Aydin pauses, then smiles. "I think you might be the one person in the world he needs to see right now. He loves you, Addy. He never stopped loving you. He's desperate for you. Maybe if he knew how much you accept him for everything he is . . ."

Aydin trails off, and I stand frozen, caught between the safety of the mansion and the pull of my heart.

"I can arrange a car to take you," Aydin's voice sounds firm, almost authoritative. "And Dante can bring you back in the morning."

On one hand, leaving the safety of the mansion now terrifies me. I've been hidden away here for weeks, presumed dead by the outside world. The thought of stepping beyond these walls terrifies me.

But on the other hand . . . Dante. The image of him alone in his penthouse, wrestling with the darkness of what he's had to do, makes my heart ache. And then there's the war. My father—no, Benjamin, I remind myself—is out there, potentially in Dante's crosshairs. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. If I could just talk to Dante, and make Benjamin understand that I'm alive, maybe we could stop this bloodshed before it goes too far.

I open my eyes, meeting Aydin's steady gaze. "Okay," I say, my voice stronger than I feel. "I'll go."

Relief flashes across Aydin's face, so quickly I almost miss it. She nods, already turning to make the arrangements. "I'll have a car ready in thirty minutes. Pack light—just essentials for overnight and come straight down and through these doors—they'll be open in exactly thirty minutes from now."

As she speaks, she moves to a locked drawer, extracting a small black device. I'm shocked to see anything remotely resembling a cell phone after weeks of being cut off. "It's a burner phone," she explains, handing it to me. "It won't work until you leave the grounds. Signor Dante's number is on speed dial 1. Use it only in an emergency."

Another frisson of unease runs through me. Why would I need an emergency between here and Dante's beach house? But I nod, clutching the phone like a lifeline. Its weight in my hand makes this all feel suddenly, terrifyingly real.

"Thank you, Aydin," I say tightly. "For everything."

She smiles tightly, watching me with an expression I can't quite decipher.

I nod again, unable to find the words to respond. As I turn to leave the kitchen, to go pack for this impromptu trip, a wave of dizziness washes over me. I stumble, catching myself on the edge of the counter.

"Addy!" Aydin's voice is sharp with concern.

"I'm fine," I assure her, straightening up. "Just a bit lightheaded. Pregnancy stuff, you know?"

She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she nods. "I'll have some snacks prepared for your journey. It wouldn't do to have you fainting on the way."

I manage a weak smile, touched by her thoughtfulness. "Thank you."

As I make my way back to my room, my mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Fear and excitement war within me, leaving me feeling jittery and off-balance. I shower quickly, the hot water doing little to calm my nerves.

When I return to the kitchen, Aydin leads me through the quiet house, down to a garage I didn't even know existed. A sleek black car waits, its engine already purring softly. The driver, an Italian man I don't recognize, nods respectfully as Aydin opens the back door for me.

As I slide into the plush leather seat, a wave of nerves washes over me. I'm really doing this. I'm leaving the safety of the mansion, venturing out into a world that thinks I'm dead.

Aydin leans in, her expression serious. "Remember, Addy. Keep a low profile," she pauses, something softening in her eyes. "Take care of each other."

I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat. As the car door shuts with a soft thud, a sudden chill runs down my spine. The plush leather seat, which was a symbol of luxury moments ago, now feels like a trap closing around me.

I can't shake the feeling that something is very wrong. The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow—I shouldn't have left the mansion. I should have spoken to Sophie.

I lean forward, trying to catch the driver's eye in the rearview mirror. "Excuse me," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady, "how long until we reach Dante's house?"

"About twenty minutes, Signorina ," he replies, his voice professional and detached.

I nod, settling back into my seat. His response was normal, expected even. So why does this feeling of dread continue to grow, coiling in my stomach like a venomous snake?

As we turn onto a main road, the driver adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. And that's when I see it—a tattoo on the back of his hand, partially hidden by his sleeve. My breath catches in my throat. It's like spotting a ‘Beware of Shark' sign after you've already jumped into the ocean.

Having spent hours tracing the tattoos on Dante's body and learning what different symbols may mean in the underworld, when I see the six-pointed star on his hand, cold fear grips me.

It's one favored by the Irish Mob. "Turn the car around, please. I forgot something."

"What did you forget, Signorina ?" Perhaps because I'm now hyperaware, I catch something in his Italian accent, the barest hint of an Irish lilt, so faint it's almost imperceptible.

My gaze flies to his. "Just turn around, please." I try to keep my voice casual, like I'm asking him to pass the salt instead of potentially saving my life.

He watches me for a few seconds and casually looks away. And then there's a soft click. The doors lock—or double lock.

Fuck. He knows that I know. "Stop the fucking car, you asshole!"

The driver's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and any doubt I had vanishes. There's no warmth there, no humanity. Just a cold, calculated purpose.

Panic streaks through me as the clear glass partition between the front and back seats begins to rise. Just before the partition closes completely, the driver's hand darts back, tossing something into the rear compartment. A cloth, I realize, as it lands with a damp thud on the floor.

The air immediately becomes pungent, a sickly sweet smell that makes my head spin. Through the partition, I watch in horror as the man removes what looks like nasal plugs from his nostrils.

Chloroform. The word flashes through my mind, accompanied by a surge of terror.

I lunge for the door handle, yanking it frantically even though I know it's locked. With shaking hands, I unbuckle my seatbelt, using the heavy metal clasp to strike at the window. But it's useless—the glass must be reinforced. It doesn't even scratch.

The smell is getting stronger. I push the cloth as far away as I can with my foot, but I know it's futile. Already, my movements are becoming sluggish, my thoughts growing fuzzy around the edges.

As my vision begins to blur, a face swims into focus in my mind—Aydin. I see the expressions on her face as she spun her tale about Dante. The ones I couldn't decipher earlier. Now, with horrifying clarity, I understand.

It wasn't concern. It wasn't sympathy.

It was deception.

That's the last coherent thought I have before darkness claims me, dragging me down into oblivion.