XIX

 

Isabella

 

The midday sun beat down on the pavement, the summer heat growing hotter and hotter by the minute.

“At least try and pretend to be sick,” I told Marzia as we headed up the bank’s front steps. She had thrown a small meltdown this morning when it had been time to go to school, so for the second time, I let her have the day off. Out of Giovanni and I, I was clearly the weak link and the seven-year-old had figured it out.

To try and discourage any more days off, I forced her to join me on my errands. It had backfired; I loved hanging out with Marzia and so far, I had already bought her a baby cappuccino and new pair of shoes for school. Giovanni had said she would walk all over me if I let her, and now I finally believed him.

Still, I couldn’t find it in myself to be upset with her. School had never been my favorite place on Earth, and I used to daydream about my mother breaking me out of my classroom and saving me from the droning lessons and florescent lights.

For my benefit, Marzia faked a cough, then grinning rosily up at me.

I huffed. “Good work.”

Cold air blowed onto us as soon as we stepped into the luxurious bank. Patrons dressed in fabrics costing thousands of dollars swarmed around us, their shoes clacking on the marble floors. A huge chandelier swung from the ceiling, the glittering light shining over the tellers and managers.

It was a bank for the wealthy and from all the looks they sent Marzia, children weren’t welcome. I glared at everyone who looked at her, ushering her over to the waiting chairs. Gustavo and Daniele followed us, Daniele staying close while Gustavo watched the entire space from the pot plants against the wall.

I joined Marzia on the couch. She had caught sight of the Hershey kisses in the glass bowl on the table.

“You can have one,” I told her.

She leaped to her feet, grabbed two, and then scrambled back to me. “Here you go, Izzy.”

I paused, hand outstretched.

Izzy .

Only my brother had ever given me the nickname. The only other person who had a nickname for me was my Uncle Angelo and he had always called me fragolina .

Marzia dropped the kiss into my palm before taking a seat beside me. She picked at the wrapper until it came away, then chewed happily on the sweet. I slowly copied her example, still trying to absorb the name. Should I say something? I didn’t mind what Marzia referred to me as, though lots of Lombardis and Viglianos alike had mentioned her calling me mom .

I hadn’t insisted on anything of the sort. We were getting along, and I cared deeply for my stepdaughter, but I wasn’t her mother.

A sharp pain pierced my heart, but I ignored it.

Deep in my soul, I knew I wasn’t allowed to be Marzia’s mother. The only reason I was in her life was a by-product of trying to destroy her father and his organization. In a few months, I wouldn’t be her friend, I would be the bitch who ruined her life.

“Mrs. Vigliano?”

I snapped my head to the side. Our accountant, Joe Croce, forced a friendly smile to his cherub-face. He was a sweet looking man, but Giovanni had mentioned he was the best money launderer in the country. He oversaw both Giovanni’s legitimate and illegitimate financial assets.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you,” he greeted. He didn’t offer to shake my hand, just sent a nervous glance to Gustavo, before tipping his head down to Marzia. “Miss Vigliano, how do you do.” He looked up at me again. “I don’t think this is the place for a…” child , went unsaid.

“Marzia is fine,” I said curtly. “I’m here to sign something?”

His cheeks pinkened. “Right this way.”

We followed him through the bank to a mahogany table. There were a few forms that needed my signature, updates to bank policy and other documents that stopped them from getting sued. Obviously, Giovanni hadn’t wanted to do it which was why he had directed all bank calls to my phone.

“We can go home after this,” I told Marzia as I signed the papers. I kept almost writing Isabella Lombardi but stopped after the L. Now, my signature was a loopy Isabella L Vigliano on all the documents. I ignored Joe’s questioning look; let him think I did it on purpose. “We might have to put a thermometer in some hot water to convince your father you’re sick.”

Marzia’s head was turned. She tugged on my sleeve suddenly, and the pen slipped from my hand, ink staining the page.

“Marzia! Why would you–”

She pointed. “Who are those men?”

“Don’t point.” I cringed; I sounded like my mother. With a softer voice, I implored, “Please don’t point, Marzia, it’s rude. Now, I have to clean up this ink–”

“He has a gun.”

I snapped my head to her then spun to where she was pointing. An unassuming looking man was loitering by the front doors. I opened my mouth to demand what on Earth she was going on about when I saw the black Glock peeking out from his belt.

My stomach dropped.

“Marzia, get under the chair now –”

The man pulled a mask over his face then pointed the gun to the roof, sending bullets up to the ceiling. The chandelier rocked furiously as plaster came floating down. Suddenly, three more masked men were also letting their guns go off, before fanning out in a triangle formation and pointing their weapons at the other patrons.

“ON THE GROUND NOW!” One shouted.

Screams and cries echoed as people hit the floor. I grabbed Marzia and dragged her behind the chairs, pressing her against the desk, hiding her from sight. Daniele grabbed his weapon, palming the gun, and rose to his feet threateningly. No, no , I went to shout, they’ll notice us–

He lifted the gun and fired.

A bullet came from behind, sending Daniele face-first onto the ground. Loud shoes banged above me then a robber was jumping down to the ground, pointing their weapon at the fallen soldati .

Marzia was shaking in my arms. “Be quiet,” I breathed into her hair. “Everything’s going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She let out a whimper but remained silent.

A patron tried to rise to his feet. “You can’t do this–!”

Another gun went off and a second body thumped to the ground. More cries swarmed around the room, blended with tears and yells for help.

“NOBODY MOVE!” Boomed one of the robbers. “EVERYBODY STAY DOWN OR WE’LL FUCKING SHOOT YOU.”

I spotted Gustavo across the bank. He was crouched beside the plants.

I shook my head slightly. If he came over here, the robbers would notice Marzia and I. I wasn’t risking her safety, not even for my own.

He nodded firmly but remained tense and vigilant.

Gustavo has his phone , I realized. He can call Giovanni–

“GIVE US YOUR PHONES AND SHOES, NOW .”

People readily tossed their shoes and mobiles in front of them, and the robbers kicked them into a huge pile. One standing near me pointed the barrel of his gun my way.

“Shoes and phone, bitch.”

I toed off my heels, biting back my comment about them being several hundred-dollar Louboutin’s. My phone was in my bag, but I slowly fished it out, before kicking it forward.

His gun turned to Marzia. “And her?”

My arms wrapped around her instinctively, my body hiding hers behind mine. “She’s seven. She doesn’t have a phone.”

“Give me her shoes.”

I angled my body so he couldn’t see her face. Tears streaked down Marzia’s cheeks, but she helped me take off her sneakers with shaky fingers.

“It’s okay, baby,” I whispered. “They’re just here for money.”

“Hurry the fuck up!”

I tugged the second sneaker off her foot and tossed them both into the pile. He went onto the next person, yelling his commands until everyone was shaking and pleading.

“I’m scared,” Marzia whispered.

My heart shattered but I had to remain strong. I wasn’t going to cry, or vomit, or go ballistic. I was going to take a page out of Giovanni’s book. I was going to stay calm and keep her safe.

God, please let me keep her safe.

I ran a comforting hand over her head. “I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s going to be okay. Just be quiet and stay behind me.”

Marzia cuddled closer to me, her little body continuing to shiver.

My eyes tracked the robbers as they grabbed the bank manager, demanding access to their vaults. One robber followed the manager, gun pointed to his back.

They just want money , I told myself. It’s going to be okay. They’ll get their money and then leave .

Sirens began in the distance then were shockingly loud. I couldn’t see out the window but one of the robbers muttered a cuss before whispering to his partner-in-crime. They both sent anxious looks to where the bank manager and their friend had gone.

Not long after, the bank manager and robber came back. A half-filled bag of cash was under his arm.

“That’s barely anything,” one robber hissed. “I was promised fucking millions. There isn’t enough cash in there to pay my fucking rent.”

“Silence,” snapped the one I assumed was the leader. “The fucking cops are here, alright?” He pointed with his gun. “Sammy, Ward, get the rest of the money. Lin, Igo, you’re with me.”

Boring names for bank robbers , I thought to myself.

“What are we going to do, boss?”

Boss scowled. “I’m not leaving without my money. If I’ve got to shoot a few fuckers to get it, I will.”

“Hostages?” Squeaked one of the robbers. He sounded young, obviously the newbie to the group if his pitched question was anything to go by.

A ringtone cut through their conversation. The noise felt like both a relief and death sentence.

Boss picked up the phone. He was quiet as he listened to whatever the other person was saying, then hissed, “Let us leave with the money and no harm comes to any of the hostages.” He slammed the phone down. It started ringing immediately.

The young robber peered out the window. “They got the cops, firemen, ambulances.” He turned back to his friends. “I feel like a celebrity.”

When I got free, he was the one I was punching first, age be damned. They clearly didn’t care about Marzia’s age, and I wouldn’t care about his either when I put a bullet in the back of his head.

The phone kept ringing and Boss picked it up. He listened, then put down the phone. Before I could blink, he grabbed Joe Croce, pressed the barrel to his head and fired. Joe didn’t even get the chance to beg for his life.

Marzia cried out at the noise, but I held her tighter. “Be quiet, baby, shh, shh. I need you to be quiet.”

More whimpers rose from the room.

“Every time I don’t get what I want,” Boss shouted, “someone gets shot! Got it?”

We all nodded.

I pressed my eyes together. All those hours of Sunday Church, of my mother snapping at me to get on my knees and bow my head, entered my mind.

Where is my husband? I pleaded with God, the universe, anyone who would listen. I need my husband.

 

Giovanni

 

I was thinking about her again.

Isabella had often found herself in my thoughts these past few months. I couldn’t pinpoint an exact trigger for my brain to summon up images of her, and questions about what she was doing, where was she, what was she thinking. But it kept happening repeatedly, even if I tried to deny it to myself.

When I awoke before the sun this morning, she had rolled close to me in her sleep. Isabella often sought warmth in the night, and more than once, I had woken up with her leg thrown over mine or her head buried in the crook of my arm. This morning, however, I had felt surprise at her closeness.

She had kicked off the blankets in the hot night, the expanse of her legs and arms on show due to her nightgown riding up. She had tossed an arm over my stomach, twisted her legs with mine and her hair was spread over my chest. To my surprise, my own body had rolled closer to her in the night, my arm thrown over her back.

Surprise .

It was an emotion I felt mostly with Marzia, occurring whenever she said something funny or alarming. But now, Isabella was the reason I felt the emotion flicker in my chest. She had wiggled her way into my household, carving out a little niche for herself, and made a space for herself in my mind.

Surprise was quickly turning into….The word annoyed, or even perhaps irritation, felt akin to what I was feeling, but neither of those words felt right. Whenever I looked at her, my chest tightened, my gut moved, and something beneath my skin seemed to twist.

Maybe I was coming down with something. Those did sound like symptoms of an illness.

Ill or not, I couldn’t deny the truthful fact: I thought about my wife often. I thought about her naked body crumbling in pleasure beneath my touch, I thought about her laughter echoing from down the hall, I thought about her sharp remarks and sweet words and how she had spent days painting dinosaurs and hung them up in Marzia’s room.

My daughter had been so happy she had been rendered speechless.

However, the memory that overtook my mind during a meeting with my underboss and consigliere, both who were arguing about the FBI, was our argument in the parking lot. Despite what Isabella believed, I did believe her when she said she saw a thief but all that had been forgotten when she had said: …. your dead brother.…

I had a few brothers, and many had died. But there was only one who still haunted me, whose ghost floated on the fringes of my memory. To hear her say she favored him, had made something dark erupt inside of me. It was unreasonable, an irrational reaction–Isabella had no idea about my past or dead brother, yet her voice, which I thought about so often, saying those words had set something off inside of me.

She had been referring to Leo, it turned out, who was very much still alive–and eager to meet Isabella, despite his undercover status.

I couldn’t put a single on why Isabella talking about my dead brother had made me so angry. Many people had mentioned by fallen siblings before, including the Godless Don of Chicago in a private meeting. His grandfather had slaughtered all of my father’s bastards in his territory, and while Alessandro hadn’t offered an apology, he had made it clear that the bastards of his enemies were safe in his city–as long as they behaved themselves.

But Isabella…My Isabella saying that–

My minds stopped in their tracks. She was not my Isabella. Her name was Isabella, and she was my wife, and while I did claim ownership over her, expecting all my enemies and allies to respect that or face the consequences, Isabella was not the sort of woman who would ever be truly mine.

A harsh knock on the door allowed me reprieve from the arguing and my tunnel of thoughts.

“Come in.”

My driver, Giacomo, stuck his head in. His skin was the color of concrete.

“What’s happened, Giacomo.”

“Sir, our bank downtown has been overrun and they’re holding hostages.”

I lifted my head. “Emergency services?”

He went even paler. “They’re already there, sir. But, um…”

Something dark unfurled in my chest. Vincent and Bartolomeo were wisely silent.

“Is that my wife in that bank?”

Giacomo nodded. “Yes, sir….and um…she let Marzia have the day off school…”

Marzia. Isabella. My wife and daughter.

In a calm levelled voice, I said, “Giacomo, bring the car around and get me my gun.”

XXI

 

Isabella

 

The clock on the wall said only seventeen minutes had passed but I felt like it had been hundreds of years. I could picture my hair graying and skin wrinkling, but a quick glance down at my hands, revealed the skin remained taunt and soft. Clearly, the stress of the situation was encouraging my imagination.

Boss hadn’t picked up the phone again, instead piling all the money from the vaults in a pile beside the door, ready for the getaway. When the cops made it clear they weren’t going to let them go, they shot two more hostages. The bank manager had passed out three minutes ago, his limp floor laying in front of the doors.

Blood from Daniele’s wound had spread, and I tucked my feet further under me to avoid it. Marzia remained a shivering mess in my arms, her face buried into my chest. I held a hand to the back of her head, gentle and comforting, but to stop her from turning around and seeing the destruction that was happening all around us.

“They’re not letting us go,” hissed the youngest robber. “I spotted the SWAT Team. They’re getting ready to come in and kill us.”

“They won’t risk anymore civilians,” snapped Boss. His eyes roamed over the crouching patrons, choosing his neck victim. They landed on me.

Boss regarded me for a moment, eyed the child in my eyes, then lunged forward.

“No!” I shrieked furiously, scratching him with my nails. “Stay the fuck away from me–!”

“Oh, you bitch! She cut me with her nail!” I had split the skin over his eye.

I bared my teeth. “They’re acrylics.”

Boss’s eyes widened before narrowing in rage. He grabbed my arm, wrenching me forward. Marzia let out a sob, clinging to me, but I shoved her back.

“Let go of me, you useless excuse for a criminal–!”

His arm swung across my face. Pain immediately rattled my brain and teeth, and I took a few unsteady steps as I tried to get my footing back. Boss didn’t let me. He shoved me to the ground, his boot pressing down on my arm.

I opened my eyes and found myself staring down the barrel of a gun.

I’m going to die. I’m going to die and Marzia will be left alone. Who will protect her?

“Hey, what the fuck is that?”

Boss turned and he growled. I followed his gaze. Smoke was filling the back of the bank, floating gently towards us like white clouds.

I knew deep in my soul that it didn’t come from the SWAT Team.

I let out a raspy laugh.

Boss stabbed his gun in my direction again, the metal kissing my forehead. “Why are you laughing?”

I met his eyes, letting my lips curve into a smile. “My husband’s here.”

Confusion danced over his face.

A gunshot sounded and Newbie dropped. Shouts rang out around the room, and Boss turned, gun pointed at the fog. Another gunshot sounded and another robber dropped like a sack of potatoes.

I scrambled to my feet and towards Marzia. She stared at me with wide red eyes but didn’t resist when I pulled her into my arms.

The smoke moved, and a dark shadow grew closer and closer. I knew who it was immediately. Even if I had been blind, I would’ve known who had stepped into the bank.

My husband’s face was hard as stone. There was no relief or fury, no burning gaze or furrowed forehead.

It made him all the more terrifying.

Boss spun around, jabbing the gun at Marzia and I. I froze, arms tightening.

“Let me take my money,” Boss hissed, “or I kill them.”

“Do you know who I am?” Giovanni inquired.

The robber’s hand tremored ever so slightly. He glanced at my husband then at Marzia and I. “No.”

“Shame. Perhaps you’ve made a better decision.”

Boss jabbed the gun at us again. “I swear to God, I’ll shoot ‘em. I don’t care–”

The front doors to the bank burst open and dozens of SWAT members streamed in. Boss turned, distracted, and I darted towards Giovanni. He grabbed us, pulling us into the fog. I could’ve sworn I felt his palm caress my cheek, but we were moving too fast for me to dwell on it.

Marzia clung to me tightly, her tears soaking my coat. I smoothed down her hair. “We’re out, Marzia. You’re safe. Your dad is here. He’s taking us home.”

A dark car was parked at the back. Vincent and Giacomo helped us into the back seat, Vincent even pulling the seatbelt over Marzia and I. She refused to leave my arms, only lifting her head when her father pressed a soft kiss to her hair.

Giovanni swung into the passenger seat. “SWAT showed up,” he said darkly.

“You didn’t get the robbers?”

“I will.”

There was no room for argument in my husband’s tone. Giovanni would find the men who threatened Marzia’s life and make them pay.

I wondered if he would let me help.

 

I sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a towel, and floating between the spaces of time. There was soft aches and bruises all over my body but none of it compared to the canyon of agony inside my heart.

For the first time in my anguish, I didn’t want to paint. I didn’t want to share these feelings with the world. All I wanted to do was stare and let the air dry my hair.

I had spent hours scrubbing my skin, trying to wash the memories of the day off. But the sound of the gunshot, the smell of Daniele’s blood remained in my head. There was not enough soap in the world to wash them away.

I had taken the clothes Marzia, and I had been wearing, and burnt them in the fireplace. Graziella, our housekeeper, had almost fainted at the sight of the charred fabrics and ash littering the floor, but wisely didn’t say anything. They had to be destroyed; it was the only comfort I could offer my stepdaughter.

Giovanni was with her now, most likely checking her for injuries for the tenth time and trying his best to comfort her. When I had gone to follow them, try to help put her to bed, he had told me curtly, “Go shower. I have her.” The hint of anger in his voice hadn’t gone unheard.

I didn’t blame him. Marzia was meant to be at school. Instead, I had let her spend the day with me…and she had almost been killed. She was traumatized, hurt. She had lost a piece of her innocence the moment she had pointed at the strange man across the bank, and it was never returning.

It was my fault.

I was beginning to believe Lombardi women were incapable of being mothers. My mother had been lacklustre, comparing me to my dead sister my entire life and hadn’t offered me any affection until she realized I could be of use to her. As for Geltrude…well, she raised my father and Uncle Bartolomeo, so she obviously wasn’t going to win any parenting awards for outstanding children.

I had that same poisoned blood running through my veins. I wasn’t cut out to be a parent, a mother. My inexperience had endangered Marzia’s life and given her a lifetime of therapy sessions to pay for.

Sadness filled my chest. I had wanted to be her mother; I had liked giving her more affection than Geltrude or Mother had ever given me. Maybe they had been right when it came to staying away from me. Maybe a distant Lombardi mother was better than a close Lombardi mother.

The bedroom door creaked open and I snapped my head up. Giovanni stepped silently into the room, eyes going to me immediately. A flicker of exhaustion danced over his face but it was there and gone within seconds.

“Is she okay?” I whispered.

Giovanni shrugged off his blazer, throwing it over an armchair in an uncharacteristic move. “She’s asleep.”

Not an answer to my question but what I deserved.

So many words boiled inside of me, so many emotions and feelings I couldn’t name. I suddenly hated my tendency to feel everything, to look at the color blue and see a dozen shades. If I was more like my big sister, if I was perfect and placid and sweet, maybe life would be less painful, maybe I wouldn’t cause destruction wherever I went.

I recalled the painting of her above the dining table. Dressed in white, passive, beautiful. She watched over our meals with a meek expression. Isabella had had a short life, but I doubted there had been any pain. She had been loved and adored; she had been perfect.

My perfect Isabella .

I squeezed my eyes tightly. The silence drew out.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted. Simple words but the only ones that fit. Tears spilled over my cheeks, dripping down to my already soaking towel. “I’m sorry I took her.”

He stared at me.

I kept babbling. “I didn’t want her to get hurt, Giovanni. Please believe me. I would’ve never–If I had known, I wouldn’t have even considered …Her safety means everything to me and there is no way I would ever…”

Giovanni continued to stare at me. There was nothing in those blue eyes of his.

Nothing? How was there nothing in him still? I was a thousand pieces coming undone with every second.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, just in case he didn’t hear me. “I love Marzia and I would never risk her life. I…I–” My voice broke. “–I understand if you want to keep her away from me now…and I….” I swiped at my tears.

Giovanni remained stoic.

There was no warning when my rage erupted. I leaped to my feet, overcome by a godlike wrath. I was Hera cursing unlucky Greeks, I was Kali destroying demons and drinking their blood, I was Freyja being summoned during battle. There was nothing inside of me except the sound of clashing swords and bloodcurdling screams.

“Yell at me!” I shrieked. “Yell at me, Giovanni! Yell, yell, yell!

He didn’t move.

“I can’t stand the coldness any longer. The apathy, the emptiness.”

No reaction.

I lunged at him, hitting his chest with a thump. “Don’t you want to kill me, Giovanni? Don’t you want to wrap your hands around my neck? Don’t you want to slit my throat and let me bleed? I endangered Marzia. I almost killed your daughter. Oh, God, she nearly died . I nearly killed her.” My words were coming out in breathless hurried sobs, some of them unintelligible. “I nearly killed my baby. Oh my God, oh God.”

Giovanni remained still.

I let out a thunderous scream. “No wonder Ines fucking killed herself! Living with you, dealing with this nothingness . You’re empty, Giovanni!” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wish I could take them back. My panic and wrath had twisted together to make quite the meltdown cocktail.

His arms snapped up, catching my wrists. “Don’t cry, Isabella.” Calmness coated his voice.

I sagged in his grip, anger depleting like a popped balloon, and let out another sob. “She was so frightened…”

Giovanni’s hand grabbed my chin, holding my head in place. His eyes drilled into mine, the blue of them so magnificent it physically pained me that I wasn’t allowed to paint them. A mixture of cobalt and periwinkle and aquamarine.

More tears spilled down my cheeks.

“Thank you.”

I froze. What did he just say…Had he just said…?

“Thank you,” he repeated. “Thank you for protecting my daughter, for comforting her and shielding her away from the atrocities.”

“I…”

Thank you.

There were no words. There were simply no words.

No more metaphors or similes or adjectives.

There was only this moment and the forgiveness we held between us like the bud of an unbloomed rose.

A peaceful silence fell over the room like a blanket. Sensations began to trickle back into my consciousness, no longer hidden by my rage and misery. I could feel Giovanni’s rough palms against my sticky cheeks, his warm breath tickling my eyelashes.

I tilted my head up.

My husband showed no emotion, but I understood his actions. The touching, the care, the forgiveness.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I whispered.

His palm tightened and he brushed his nose over my forehead. “I have never felt that way before,” he admitted, sounding vaguely confused. “Like my heart was going to fall out my mouth.”

I leaned closer to him, seeking both his comfort, and offering some of my own. “I feel like that all the time. It’ll pass.”

Giovanni’s thumb brushed over my cheek. “It has not yet. I held my daughter until she passed out from crying. And now I look at you and the harm they caused...” His eyes latched onto the bruise that was slowly forming from where I had been hit. “The feeling grows worse, more intense. Like I am a child again, waiting for the door to–” He stopped.

“Waiting for what, Giovanni?”

“Nothing,” he murmured. “Forget I said anything.”

I searched his expression, but he leaned forward, lips meeting mine. The kiss was soft, angelic. I kissed him back, my soul settling at his touch.

When he pulled back, something darker had entered his expression. It was the same look he had given me at the club, in the hallway outside an important meeting.

From the questioning tilt to his head, he was asking permission. Instead of speaking, I pulled his head down, our second kiss deeper and hungrier. Giovanni churned to life beneath my touch, grasping my waist and burying his hands in my hair. I didn’t realize we had moved towards the bed until my legs hit the side of the mattress.

Giovanni broke our kiss. I was breathing heavily but he looked like he had just had a nice relaxing bubble bath.

His hands roamed down my exposed arms, goosebumps trailing in their wake. “Are you going to do as I say or are you going to rebel?”

My beat of my heart grew louder. I said the answer he least expected, “I’ll do as you say.”

Giovanni’s eyes snapped to mine, the blue so deep it had the ability to drown shipwrecks. “That is a very dangerous thing to say to a man like me.”

I knew that but I didn’t care.

“I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.” With a flick of his wrist, he undid my towel. It fell to the ground in a heap.

Cool air brushed against my naked body, my nipples puckering. Giovanni ran his fingers possessively down my side, curving around my hip and ass.

“Such soft skin,” he noted. I don’t think he meant to say it out loud. “So easy to split and scar, yet you remain unmarked.”

“I had an easy life.”

Giovanni took my hands. Little white scars could be spotted in the middle of my palms, remnants of my girlhood wrath.

“Have you done this again since I told you not to?”

I was surprised when I admitted, “No, I haven’t.”

He squeezed them. “Good.” Giovanni stepped back, rolling up his sleeves. He remained fully clothed while I was as naked as the day I was born. “Lay down on your back.”

I gulped.

“Lay down, Isabella,” he said. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

“Or what?”

His eyes gleamed. “You don’t want to find out, my love. Now do as you’re told.”

My cheeks heated as I crawled onto the bed, then lay down on my back, legs facing Giovanni. He walked around the bed, so my head was in his direction.

“Come closer to me.”

I wiggled further up. My heart was beating so rapidly it felt seconds away from exploding. Strands of my hair swung over the side, my eyes tracking Giovanni upside down.

Giovanni crouched down, running his lips and hands over my face and neck. His forefinger pressed lightly to my throat, sending shudders through my spine. “There are so many things I want to do you, Isabella,” he murmured. “I have held myself back due to your youth and inexperience. But now I see you laying here…” His fingers trailed over my chest. “I see your nipples are pinched for me…” Further and further. “I feel how soaked your pussy is.” He ran his thumb lightly down my folds. “Just for me.”

Oxygen was becoming increasingly harder to breathe.

Giovanni pressed his lips to my cheek. “What sort of husband would I be if I denied you?” He pushed his thumb between my lips. “Open your mouth, Isabella.”

I did.

“There’s a good girl,” he said.

“Stop teas–”

Giovanni pressed his fingers to my lips. “No talking, my love.”

I scowled but remained silent. The anticipation was building higher and higher, becoming nearly unbearable.

He pressed his lips to mine, the kiss faintly awkward upside down. “I’m going to enjoy seeing those lips around my cock,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy watching you choke but too needy to stop. My headache personified, on her back, and apologizing for all the gray hairs she’s given me.”

Giovanni rose to his feet, unbuckling his belt. My knees bent upwards, feet digging into the mattress as I fought with my arousal. My focus was on my husband dropping his belt and shoving down his pants.

I had never seen Giovanni’s cock and my mind was suddenly electrified with the thought.

He was already hard, and the sight of him made my mouth dry up. Sex with Harry Gruenfield had hurt, and he had been half the size of Giovanni. There was a flicker of nervousness, but it disappeared as soon as he rubbed his hand down the length of it.

“Keep your mouth open, Isabella,” he said.

I nodded.

Giovanni pressed his cock to my lips, the salty taste of pre-cum entering my mouth. His fingers brushed the side of my cheeks gently.

“Deep breaths, my beauty,” he said softly. “Now, open your mouth wide and worship my cock the way you should.”

I wrapped my mouth around his swollen head, invigorated by the new sensations. Giovanni moved his hips slowly, pushing himself further and further until my gag relaxes repulsed him.

His hands brushed over my throat. “Good girl. Take me deep into your throat.”

I had a vague idea how to give a blowjob thanks to the girls change rooms at my Catholic high school and the banana Lizzie Angelo had brought to class. No teeth, no biting. Learning what Giovanni liked was a little harder, but eventually I caught up.

His jaw clenched when I sucked, his lips parted when I licked. When I went to cup his balls, he let out a dark growl, the sound bouncing off the walls and ceiling.

“Take it all,” he said as his strokes quickened. “Take me deep into your throat so that every time you open your mouth, you remember who you belong to.”

I choked a few times, but it only seemed to excite him more. Wetness and aching were welling up inside of me, the apex of my thighs so sopping I feared it was dripping onto the bed.

Between thrusts, I gasped, “I want you inside me.”

“Did I say you could talk?” He inquired, hands pressing tighter on my neck.

I shook my head.

“No, I didn’t.” He rammed his cock further down my throat until I coughed. “I warned you there would be a punishment, didn’t I?”

Giovanni slipped from my mouth and rubbed himself. His cum spurted onto my chest, coating my breasts and stomach. He let out a rough groan.

I shuddered, feeling both used, humiliation and more aroused than I had ever been in my life.

From my view, I saw Giovanni step back. He pulled his slacks back into position, buckled his belt and went over to the chair that held his blazer. I watched silently as he slipped it on. He looked so put together, so perfect, that it was impossible to tell he had just cum on his wife’s breasts not thirty seconds ago.

“I don’t get an orgasm?” I snapped.

Giovanni arched a brow. “Punishment requires one party taking something from the other.”

I lifted myself onto my elbows, outraged. “You’re kidding right.”

“Do I look like I’ve ever kidded a day in my life?”

No, but that was besides the point. “You can’t leave me like…this.” My cheeks warmed.

“I can.”

I scowled before a wicked idea formed in my mind.

With slow sensual movements, I dragged my fingers down my stomach, soaked in Giovanni’s cum. I was so achy and aroused that when my thumb pressed down on my clit, I bent down over the bed, using my elbow to steady myself.

My moan filled the room, but my husband made no move towards me.

No matter. I didn’t need him for this.

I brought my leg up, arching myself into a better position. With deft movements, I traced around my clit, stroking my folds. My fingers came away slick with arousal and cum. It didn’t take many strokes before I was bucking off the bed, my cry filling the room.

When I came down from the climax, I turned to Giovanni. He stood not a meter from me, eyes dark and gripped with an animalistic emotion. He didn’t even look like he was breathing.

We stared at each other, no sound but my heavy breathing.

“Get some rest, Isabella” he said finally, voice guttural and deep. “You’re going to need it.”

 

XXIII

 

Giovanni

 

Vincent stepped up to my side as I surveyed the ocean. Ships were shrouded by mist, the ocean so dark it looked like a pool of ink. The summer breeze rolled over us, making the usually harrowing docks slightly more pleasant. I never used to notice such trivial things before, but now my mind was seeing a little more beauty in the world, a little more artistry.

I knew why. There was only one new variable.

She was currently peering over the edge of the dock, black coat pooling around her. Isabella had insisted on joining me and I had allowed her, but she had grown bored when we began discussing arranged marriages, debts to be repaid and the latest news about Pakhan Konstantin–whose newfound bloodlust and insanity had interested my wife for only a moment.

Vincent spoke first, my eyes remaining on Isabella. “I want to ask your permission.”

Ah, finally. After over a year of dealing with his moony eyes and teenager boy love life, my relief had come.

“Go on.” A breeze caught Isabella’s hair and she angrily tucked the strand behind her ear.

He shifted on his feet, his only sign of discomfort. “I want to ask Lucrezia to marry me. I would like your blessing.”

“Have you spoken to your parents about this?” I asked. A wave crashed against the dock and Isabella took a hurried step back.

“I have.”

“And?”

“They are supportive but against the match.”

I eyed him. Vincent was good at feigning coldness, but that’s all it was: an act. Beneath the mask, I could pick out his insecurities and irritations easily. “If you want to ask Lucrezia to be your wife, I have no problem. However, I would warn you against it.”

Vincent blinked at me. I, too, was surprised by my words.

“Sir?”

“You cannot build a marriage on lies.”

“I suppose an alliance is easier to build a marriage on.” As soon as he said it, Vincent paled faintly. “I meant no disrespect, sir.”

I nodded curtly. Isabella had spotted something below the dock and had gotten to her knees, peering through the cracks of the wood.

“Lucrezia will hate you once you tell her the truth, so I don’t blame you for your hesitation. It is you and you alone who will wake up every day beside her and continue to lie. If you can live with that, I see no reason why you shouldn’t ask.”

My underboss said nothing.

Isabella looked up in that moment, eyes searching until they landed on me. “Giovanni!” She called. “There’s a body under here!”

I started towards her immediately. Because my wife had little self-preservation, she leaned closer, pressing her face to the dock.

“Do not lean on the ground, Isabella. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that?”

Isabella ignored me. She often did whenever I patronized her. I continued doing it because a strange thrill went through me at her defiance.

I crouched beside her, gently moving her head to the side. She pointed. “It looks like there is a bag wrapped around his head.”

I pause, turning back to Vincent. His face was remote.

“Come on, Isabella.” I pulled her to her feet. She clutched my arm to steady herself, sending me a glare. “This is nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

“We can’t just leave him here, Giovanni,” she said sharply. “We can’t leave him here to rot.”

At her core, beneath the fire and fierceness, Isabella was a kind woman. She prayed every time she heard sirens, she loved Marzia as her own, she was always polite to the staff. I was not surprised she wanted to bury the corpse she had found, but this wasn’t our mess to deal with.

This belonged solely to Vincent and the future he was to embark on.

“This body belongs to Vincent,” I told her. “Not us.”

Realization struck her face immediately. “It’s Michele?” She looked down like she could spot the traitorous lawyer. “Lucrezia’s Michele?”

“Lucrezia’s Michele,” I confirmed.

Isabella turned her gaze to Vincent. The look she sent him was frightening enough to peel the skin from his bones. If Vincent had been anything less than the underboss for the Vigliano mob, he would’ve shrunk and cowed. Instead, he looked away, working his jaw.

“Lucrezia loved him, and you killed him.” Isabella intended to say her piece. “Why? Jealously? Possessiveness?”

“He was a traitor,” Vincent said.

Both he and I knew Michele’s death had been a cocktail of all three. I remembered watching him kill Michele and being intrigued by the viciousness in which Vincent had killed him. There was a certain thrill to killing someone, the adrenaline was addictive if you weren’t careful and in our way of life, it often meant you earned money or drugs from your victim’s death.

Some kills were bloody, others cleaner. Vincent had never been psychotic with how he conducted himself, though he did enjoy inflicting some pain. But the day he had killed Michele…The coroner physically hadn’t been able to do an autopsy afterwards.

I looked at Isabella, taking in her dark angular features and everchanging frown. Would I kill Isabella’s ex-husband in such a way? It was highly likely. I had instructed Giusy to find everyone in Isabella’s graduating class to figure out who had taken her virginity. I would wait until Isabella told me, then I would consider my next course of action on the matter.

“Disgusting,” Isabella snapped. “Fucking disgusting. You let Lucrezia mourn all by herself, alone in that bloody apartment on his anniversary, when the reason he is dead is because of you .”

Vincent glanced at me then back to my wife. He was trying to gauge how he could react.

If he had any sense, he would keep his tone polite when speaking to Isabella. Underbosses were replaceable, even if I would miss him in my own way.

“This life is darker than you know,” he told her.

Isabella curled her lip. “Oh, trust me, Vincent, I’m fully aware how dark this life is. I also know how valuable secrets are.” Her eyes flickered to me, an unknown emotion dancing in her irises. “As well as threats.”

I arched a brow at her. She was referring to what I had said to her at our wedding. There was something going on in my wife’s brain, and I was incapable of understanding what. Sometimes I looked at Isabella and wondered if she had twice as many emotions as the rest of us, and often I thought my theory was correct.

Lately, however, she had been looking at me with a different emotion. Something deeper, something more forgiving but also fiercer.

I recognized it on her face because I, too, was beginning to feel that emotion weigh heavily on my chest. At first, I thought I had food poisoning or even a heart condition–it wouldn’t be unusual as I neared forty–but it had continued, and it grew stronger whenever I looked at my wife.

A warm summer breeze blew over the dock, tickling my cheeks.

“There will be no threats declared this evening,” I told them both, though I was mainly speaking to Vincent. “Vincent, this is your mess. Clean it up.”

“Yes, boss.” His gray eyes roamed over Isabella. “I will do, boss.”

 

Isabella

 

Water swirled around me, pulling and pushing. I moved with the currents, my lungs bursting in pain. I already knew where I was, what was going to happen, but still panic clawed at my throat as I tried to gasp for air and drag myself to the surface–

“Daddy! Izzy!”

Marzia’s voice woke me immediately. Darkness soaked the room, inky and dark, but my eyes adjusted quickly. I felt Giovanni shift beside me, carefully moving my arms and legs off him.

I stretched out like a cat full of cream. “I’ve got her, I’ve got her.” I let out a yawn but still managed to pull myself up into a sitting position.

“You got her last night,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion.

I slipped off the bed, shoving my feet into slippers despite the heat. “You’ve got an early meeting tomorrow. I’ve got her.”

Marzia let out another cry.

Giovanni lifted himself up, rubbing his eyes with his forefingers. He blinked at me, hair mused from sleep. If I had a little more energy, I would lament how unfair it was he was still handsome even exhausted but the thoughts felt like mud in my brain.

“You didn’t sleep at all last night.” He glanced at the clock. 4:06 am . “My meetings in a few hours. I can stay awake.”

I shook my head. Giovanni had slept two hours the past four days, either awake for work or because he was watching over Marzia. He tried to hide his exhaustion but the heavy bags beneath his eyes told me all I needed to know. Neither of us were sleeping.

“Go back to bed. I’m already up.”

He relented, collapsing back into the bed. “Bring her in here if you want. It’s the only way I’m going to be able to sleep.”

I nodded, stumbling out the door and into the hallway. The sudden light made my eyes warp and I groaned. I loved Marzia but sleep deprivation was no joke. I thought the benefit of having a stepchild who was older was that I got to skip the sleepless nights. Frankly, that was proving not to be true.

When I reached Marzia’s room, she was up in her bed, blanket pulled to her chin. Her eyes were as round as saucers, her lips quivering. My heart broke and I all but ran over to her.

“Isabella?” She whispered.

I turned on the lamp and sat beside her on the bed. She leaned into my chest, letting me stroke her hair and kiss her cheeks. “It’s me, baby.”

“I had another bad dream, Izzy.”

“Was it the same one as last time?”

Marzia nodded tearfully. “The man with the ski mask came for me and he–he–” She let out a choked noise.

The thieves who tried to rob the bank were currently in federal custody. However, I knew Giovanni was working on letting them out. Not out of the goodness of his heart, but so that he could hunt them down individually and serve a more appropriate type of justice. A type of justice that included blood and screams.

I rubbed her back, dropping another kiss on her head. “I know. It’s okay, baby. It was only a dream.”

Marzia nodded but cuddled me tighter.

Both of us needed to sleep so I grabbed her favorite book and stuffed dinosaur. Ines watched me from her frame, eyes judgey. I could only imagine what she was thinking. I had endangered her daughter and now Marzia wasn’t sleeping due to traumatic nightmares about the incident.

If I had been Ines, I would’ve come back from the dead and beaten me up with a baseball bat.

To Marzia, I said, “Come on, baby. You can sleep with your dad and I tonight.”

She leaped out of bed and scrambled to our room, spirits rising rapidly. There was a novelty to having a sleepover with us apparently. I had no idea why. I had never been allowed to sleep in my parent’s bed; I don’t think seven-year-old Isabella had even wanted to. She probably knew they would push her out.

When I arrived, Marzia had made herself comfortable in the middle of the bed, adjusting Giovanni and I’s pillows to make room for hers. A little excited smile bloomed on her face, and she chatted to her half-asleep dad about us having a sleepover.

I climbed in beside her, reduced to a quarter of the space I had had before. I pretended to mind but I could care less. If it meant Marzia getting a goodnights sleep, I’d sleep on the floor.

It was too hot to cuddle but Marzia didn’t mind. She flushed herself against her dads back, poking her chin into his spine. He didn’t complain or tell her to move. Just murmured a goodnight . Only Marzia got Giovanni’s endless patience. I was certain she could stab him, and he’d only calmly clean up the knife and tell her not to do it again.

“Good night, Daddy. Good night, Izzy.”

“Good night, Marzia.”

She woke up twice more during the night.

When the sun rose over the horizon, all three of us were already awake and camped out in the kitchen. I poured Giovanni his second cup of coffee as his eyes tracked Marzia. She was watching cartoons in the living room, and we had let her eat her cereal on the couch. I had already seen a dozen Lucky Charms fall onto the floor and in-between the couch cushions.

I rested my elbows on the bench, pressing my hands to my eyes. “Tell me you got more sleep than I did.”

“I did not.”

I sighed deeply.

Giovanni looked to me. “She’ll be okay for a few hours if you want to go back to sleep. Both of us can’t be sleep deprived.”

“I’m awake now.” Even if my eyes did keep closing to catch seconds of sleep.

“We need to take her away,” he said. “Separate her from the city for a bit.”

“You would feel comfortable leaving your territory?”

He frowned. “Marzia comes first.”

Giovanni had hinted to Marzia being his priority a few times before, but I had never heard him utter the words Marzia comes first .

The feeling in my chest bloomed at the words. Every day, I felt closer to him, felt…Every day, I felt something heavy and painful but also magnificent and beautiful when I looked at him. I had always seen this world in extremes, black or white, filled with dramatics and art and screams. But when I looked at my husband, a deep sense of peace spread throughout me.

I knew what it was, but I wasn’t going to admit it. I couldn’t admit it.

“Where’s her favorite place on Earth?” I asked. “I’ll take her there. Even if I have to build a time machine and take her back to the age of the dinosaurs.”

His lips twitched. “No. Her favorite place on Earth is a little easier to travel to.”

 

XXIV

 

Isabella

A yacht.

A boat that floated on water. On the ocean .

The moment I saw it, I felt light-headed. Fears of drowning and dark depths overcame me, rendering me silent.

When Giovanni had brought up the idea of a holiday, I had leaped up to the idea. Now, I was no longer so excited.

“Are you okay, Izzy?” Marzia asked as we travelled along the dock.

I adjusted my zebra striped headscarf to hide my discomfort. At least, my huge sunglasses hid my true reactions. “I’m meant to be asking you that.”

She sent me a huge grin, the first one in days. Marzia looked exceptionally cute in her flip-flops and purple summer dress. When Giovanni had tried to put a hat on her, she had refused on accounts of it ruining her hairstyle. I had put her hair into two French braids and Marzia loved them.

The yacht swayed gently on the currents, the title Marzia’s Grace scrawled across the side. Marzia climbed in, chatting happily to the captain while Giovanni offered me his hand.

“I think you’re cutting off circulation to my fingers,” he noted once I was safely inside the boat.

“Huh?”

He gestured to the hand I had gripped. I let go.

“I didn’t even realize.” I forced an airy laugh, but it came out awkward and abrupt.

Giovanni rose a brow. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Just ready for a holiday.” One preferably on dry land, miles away from any large bodies of water. Why couldn’t Marzia love the desert? Or even the woods? I would much prefer sleeping on sticks than water.

It was clear from Giovanni’s expression he didn’t believe a word I had just said, but he gestured, urging me forward.

The yacht was nothing to complain about, even if it was a death-trap by all accounts. It was three stories, with the living quarters at the bottom and an expansive open-air lounge at the top. The yacht had its own pool, surrounded with sunbeds and a private bar, as well as two jet skis. I wasn’t going on either of those things and neither was Marzia, I decided.

After unpacking (where I took double the prescribed dosage of Dramamine), Marzia and I laid out in front of the pool while Giovanni took work calls. The bobbling movements of the boat almost made me vomit, and when Marzia asked me to swim with her, I almost passed out.

I had no idea where my aquaphobia came from. Perhaps I had always been like this, or maybe my mother had forgotten about me in a bathtub, and I had internalized it. Whatever the reason, my phobia sent me into a constant state of panic. I was sweating, shivering, and had to do breathing exercises to control the tightness in my chest.

A cigarette would calm me down, but I couldn’t leave Marzia unsupervised in the pool. That was rule one when it came to taking care of children.

Look how happy Marzia is , I said to distract myself from my nausea. My stepdaughter did look happy. She was paddling around in the pool, jumping off the unicorn floatie and doing somersaults under the water. Do it for her, endure it for her.

It’s the least you can do.

I did Lamaze breathing until Giovanni stepped out onto the deck, then suddenly I couldn’t breathe any more–but for an entirely different reason. My husband wore light white pants, paired with a loosely buttoned blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was barefoot and wore sunglasses, looking more relaxed than I had ever seen him.

I realized my mouth was hanging open when he looked over to me, and beelined for my sunbed. Goosebumps had risen up and down my skin as he prowled over the deck. I was wearing a skimpy red bikini, working on my tan line, but beneath my husband’s gaze, I felt as red as the fabric.

“Do you want something to drink?”

You. Or some liquidated Dramamine . “I’m fine, thank you.”

Giovanni perched on the lounge beside me. “The Feds have released the Ó Fiaich’s crate. It’s on its way to Brooklyn now.”

My brows furrowed. “But didn’t they find drugs in it?”

“They did.”

I huffed. “Your brother works fast.”

“Indeed, he does.”

“Dad! Dad!” Marzia pulled herself up by the side of the pool, splashing us both with water. “Please come in. Pleaseee.”

“Isabella doesn’t want to swim with you?” He arched a brow at me.

I tilted my nose up and stretched over the sunbed. There was no fucking way I was getting into that pool, being in its proximity was already too much for me to handle. “Isabella is busy getting a tan.”

Marzia climbed out of the pool and joined me. “I want a tan, too.” She copied my position and relaxed beside me. Whenever, I moved my legs, she copied me, but ended up falling into a tirade of giggles.

Once the sun began to go down, I had an excuse to insist we head inside. My panic lessened slightly when I couldn’t see the ocean even if I flinched every time the boat swayed, or a wave crashed against the side. I would never understand anyone’s obsession with water. If humans were meant to swim, we would’ve been born with fins.

We sat around the dinner table, flushed from the heat, and dressed in light airy clothing. My skin was sticky from sweat, causing me to feel uncomfortable in my skin. But all that was forgotten when my husband passed me a glass of wine and my stepdaughter began telling us all about her plans. Dinner with Giovanni and Marzia was never boring or tense, so far away from the dinners at the Lombardi house.

We were both delighted to see that Marzia was much better spirits–even if Giovanni didn’t show it. The sparkle in his eyes as he watched his daughter told me all I needed to know.

Soon Marzia’s eyes began to droop. “Are you tired, baby?” I asked, brushing some errant strands out of her eyes.

“No.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I’m not tired.”

No less than five minutes later, Marzia had fallen asleep leaning against Giovanni.

“Not tired,” I laughed softly. “Do you think she’ll sleep through the night?”

Giovanni slowly picked her up, holding her to his chest. He treated nothing else in his life with such gentleness. This was how I imagined them when Marzia was a baby; tender embraces, sweet words, her always in his arms. When they were together, it was easy to tell just how similar they were, any sign of Ines lost in Marzia’s features like a needle in a haystack.

I followed him as he headed to Marzia’s room, opening doors and pulling down the blanket. My fear grew more palpable in the rooms, they were small and smelt of the sea. The only way to see the sky was through a small circular window.

I shoved down those fears and tucked Marzia in while Giovanni slipped off her shoes.

“She’ll be okay going to bed with wet hair?” I whispered. “I don’t want her to get sick.”

Giovanni glanced at her, eyes gleaming. “She’ll be fine.”

We moved in tandem, each step silent and deliberate. Once she was comfortable, dinosaur teddy tucked between her arms, Giovanni and I slipped from the room. I peered at her sleeping form from the hallway, a strange sense of melancholy settling over me.

Giovanni stepped behind me, pressing his lips behind my ear and then down to my exposed neck.

I shivered, turning into his embrace. “Our room is right down the hall.”

His lips quirked. “Let’s have a drink first.”

We made our way back up to the deck, taking a seat at the small outdoor dining table. Giovanni poured me a glass of wine before topping up his own. A sea breeze floated over us, causing more goosebumps to rise up and down my skin. It was cooler out here than back in Manhattan, but I didn’t have a lot of time to admire the change in temperature. My focus was trained on the water, on the sweating of my palms and pounding of my heart.

“What are you planning for your birthday?”

I blinked. “My birthday?”

His brows rose. “The 29th of August, Isabella. Did you forget?”

I had. There was so much going on in my mind that my birthday had completed gone unnoticed. Time had become an odd thing to recall. It felt like yesterday my mother had told me her devious plan, but it felt like a century ago when Giovanni and I got married. It was moving too slowly and too quickly, dragging me forward with little reprieve.

I sipped my wine. “I’m surprised you remembered.”

“Due to all your other unfavourable traits, I assumed you would be obsessed with birthdays, so I made a note to remember it.”

“Unfavourable?” I lifted my glass. “Do you want this throw in your face?”

Giovanni’s eyes gleamed.

“You’re wrong by the way,” I added. “I never celebrate my birthday. It’s the anniversary of my sister’s death.”

“You were born on the same day as your sister?”

“Same hour, same minute, exactly eight years later.”

His brow arched. “The more I learn about your family, the more inclined I am to find them.” Giovanni took a sip of his wine, ever casual. “It would be good for them to have a taste of their own medicine.”

A loaded statement. I didn’t speak out of fear I would reveal something better left unsaid.

The boat shifted as a particularly strong wave pushed into the side. Rationally, I knew the deck hadn’t moved, but my brain immediately tricked me into thinking I had been shoved to the side. I latched onto the side of the table, steadying myself.

Giovanni reached over to me, grasping my wrist. “You’re afraid of water.”

I swallowed against my dry throat. “A little bit.”

“This is why you’ve been off all day. I assumed it was you experiencing guilt again–my brother told me it was an ever-constant feeling, but it’s not that, is it?”

“I always feel guilty,” I muttered. “Except right now, I’m feeling both guilty and on the brink of an anxiety attack.”

Disapproval shone on my husband’s face. “You should’ve said something, Isabella. I never would’ve insisted we holiday on the yacht if I knew it would bring you such discomfort.”

I looked away, cheeks suddenly hot. “Marzia…She seemed so happy when you told her we were going away to her favorite place. I didn’t want to take away from that.” I sent him a smile, but it felt too forced and came out strange. “I’ll just sleep in the spare room, with my bucket and Zoloft.”

“Funny,” he said in a tone that implied I wasn’t funny at all.

A shadowy figure caught the corner of my eye. So quick, so fast, I thought it was my eyes playing tricks on me. I searched the deck.

“Hey, Giovanni, did you see that–?”

What happened next started with me crying out for my husband and ended with me screaming his name.

Giovanni leaped to his feet, gun in palm and yelled loudly. Bodyguards were at the back of the boat, with the captain and tasked with keeping out of our way. However, in that moment, I spotted Gustavo jumping from the eagle’s nest and climbing down to the deck like a ninja–

Two unfamiliar men charged forward, one going straight for my husband. Giovanni fought back, immobilizing the man fast. But he had no time to recover. The second man jumped him, the blade of his knife gleaming in the light of the deck.

I cried out, “Knife!” Giovanni spotted it, twisting, and snapping the man’s wrist. The knife clattered to the ground.

I needed to do something. I needed to help.

Gustavo fought off two men, and other Vigliano soldati had joined the fight. More shadowy men climbed onto the boat, outnumbering us significantly.

Pirates or the government?

One man looked towards me. Brown eyes gleamed and he sent me a wink.

Lombardis .

I grabbed the bottle of wine, getting ready to smash it and use the glass–

A gunshot went off.

Chaos erupted, shouts and bullets and screams. More men filled out the deck, trampling over the sunbeds Marzia and I had dozed in earlier.

Marzia . Oh, God. She was asleep a floor below. The noise would wake her, but would she be safe? I took in all the men. No, Marzia wouldn’t be safe. I would have to get to her and protect her. We could take the lifeboats–

Then my eyes reached Giovanni. My brain took a second to compute what it was seeing. He was clutching his side, red ichor spreading over his hand and shirt. His expression was cold, but flickers of pain shone through.

No, no.

Wounded, Giovanni’s movements were stunted. He took down two more men, their bodies hitting the deck with a thump. A third man jumped on his back, sending my husband to his knees.

I charged–

I didn’t get far. Two men grabbed my arms, pulling me to the side. I let out a furious howl.

“ISABELLA!” Giovanni roared somewhere.

I kicked out. My foot connected with the side of a man’s leg, and his knee gave way beneath my strength.

“Bitch,” he snapped. I spat at him. “We’re here to help–”

I reared back, connecting my forehead with his. My skull rattled with pain, but adrenaline had me moving my head back once more–

My captor shoved me to the side before wrapping his hands around my hair. He forced me to look at my husband, at Giovanni who was still fighting for his life, blood dripping from his many wounds–

Giovanni was dragged to the side by four men, all who had to use all their energy to control him. I struggled, trying to free my hands so I could scratch out the eyes of the men holding me. They forced my head to be still, keeping their fingers away from my teeth.

“Fuck you all!” I shrieked.

“Shut up and watch, principessa,” laughed the man behind me, his sour breath wafting over my face.

Another two men lunged onto Giovanni. He fought harder but he was growing weaker and there were too many men–

They pushed him over the edge.

“No!” My scream echoed through the night, waking sea creatures from their slumber and stars from their burning. “No, no!”

Gustavo charged at the man holding me. The collision gave me enough time to escape his hold and scramble forward. Glass and blood littered the ground, but I scrambled over it all. Soldati continued to fight, their battle fading into the background as I leaned over the edge of the yacht.

The dark depths stared up at me. I couldn’t do this, I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I couldn’t. I would drown, I could already feel the water filling up my lungs–

Giovanni.

Giovanni needed me.

Without me, he would drown. Without me, he would die.

Two paths lay before me.

My entire life could go back to normal if I let him sink. I could paint for the rest of my days, enjoy my parents love and respect. All the lying and spying could be over, all the guilt and nightmares would fade. I could have everything I wanted.

But…

The only thing I wanted was Giovanni to be safe.

I gulped, feeling panic well up inside of me. The ocean grew more terrifying, a pool of spilled ink that would swallow me whole. Staring down at the black surface, I knew I couldn’t do this. I could barely swim, and panic would kill me before drowning did.

Giovanni .

“If you’re dead already,” I hissed, “I’m so going to kill you for this.”

I dove.

My dive was unpractised, and I smacked into the water. The world was empty for a moment, then my senses recovered. Rushing water sounded by my ears, water currents teased at my hair, my arms and legs felt like they were moving through honey.

Panic welled in my chest, clutching painfully. I was going to die. I was actually going to die and then I was going to go to Hell and kill Giovanni for making me do this.

Giovanni !

I spotted him below me. He was sinking fast, his blood spreading throughout the water like a cloud. His eyes were closed, face peaceful.

My legs kicked out furiously and pushed myself through the water. It was difficult, and my limbs cramped instantly. Only pure adrenaline allowed me to go deeper and deeper. Air and clarity began to disappear, and I knew I couldn’t last much longer.

He was sinking too fast–

Isabella, calm down , I told myself. You need to calm down .

My body didn’t listen.

Do not panic, do not freak out, I chanted to myself. You need to relax. You need to swim .

The hurricane of emotions that lived inside of me dimmed. Anxiety stilled tugged at me, but I felt sharper, calmer.

It was quite peaceful being under water. No sounds, no smell, nothing really to see. I felt like I was suspended in amniotic fluid, calm and weightless.

With a new push, I spread my arms, using wide movements to swim further into the dark depths. Some part of my mind tried to trick me into seeing a shark or squid, but I pushed past it. My husband was going to die and I needed to save him.

Giovanni got closer and closer, his skin pallid and eyes closed.

I stretched out, my fingers wiggling–

I clasped his shirt, wrenching him towards me. I almost sighed in relief but common sense kicked in.

Then the second issue arose. Giovanni was too heavy, and I wasn’t a strong swimmer. His weight threatened to take us both down, but I kicked harder than I ever had before and rise towards the surface. We kept sinking but I furiously shoved at the water behind.

My chest was tight, aching for oxygen, but I kept going.

I wasn’t going to let him die.

The yacht came into view, a blur above me. Only the lights from the deck allowed me to spot it, and if I had blinked, I might’ve missed it. I gasped when I broke the surface and dragged Giovanni beside me. He was so heavy, and I bobbled up and down, swallowing salt water.

You can’t give up now , I screamed at myself.

I dragged us towards the yacht, using strength I didn’t even know I had. The back of the yacht had a lower platform to help divers get in and out the water. This time it was being used by a soaked woman and her dying husband.

I pushed Giovanni up first, using my arms and shoulders. Exhaustion weighed heavily in my bones, and when I pulled myself up beside him, my limbs shuddered painfully.

There was no time for pain. I needed Giovanni to wake up.

“Giovanni, I need you to wake up. Baby, please.”

What was I meant to do? CPR? Or recovery position so he didn’t choke on any water? My brain was a frazzled mess but I pressed my hands to his chest, throwing all my weight into the thrusts. One, two, three, one, two three.

I put my ear to his lips. Still not breathing.

Panic clawed at my chest, but I shoved it down. I needed to think straight, to save Giovanni. This was not the time for hysterics.

“Wake up, Giovanni!” I screamed. “WAKE UP!”

He remained still.

“Please, oh God, please, Giovanni. I need you to wake up. I need you .”

No response.

I leaned into his ear, threatening him in his time of death. “If anyone is going to kill you, my love, it’s going to be me.” I pumped his chest again. “So you better wake up, because if you die on me, I’m not going to be happy.”

Beneath my fingertips, a flutter.

A pulse.

Giovanni was alive.

Lombardis had come to kill him, and the Lombardi spy had kept him alive.

I knew that things were about to change, that my alliances had shifted, but in that moment, listening to the heartbeat of the man I loved, I didn’t care.

XXV

 

Isabella

 

I was fully prepared to admit I would make the worst nurse in human history. A fact that Giovanni warned me of a few times while I fussed over him. I couldn’t help my prying questions and endless fretting and constant snapping. If someone hadn’t gotten shot, then I wouldn’t need to pass you the phone or fluff you pillows , I reminded him.

Though I may be the worst nurse in history, my husband wasn’t going to win any awards of Best Patient. I didn’t realize how often Giovanni had to be doing things. He was so calm that I just assumed he could sit completely for days on end and be fine. This was not the case.

Giovanni was constantly working, hiding his bandages beneath his suits. When I forced him to bedrest, he brought half his study into the bed with him.

After a few days of healing, Giovanni began sending me heavy-lidded looks. I ignored most of them, pushing away the shivers that crawled up and down my spine.

“Strip,” he commanded on the third night.

I turned away to hide my blushing. “You have a hole in your gut, Giovanni.”

“I’m aware.”

I snorted and turned to him. The look he sent me almost fried my skin.

“Strip,” he repeated.

My hands moved on their own accord, slowly dragging down my zipper and pushing my dress to the ground. The room wasn't cold but I shivered as my naked body was exposed. The hungry look my husband sent me didn't help.

Giovanni grabbed a pillow and dragged it in the middle of the bed, adjusting it so it stood upwards.

“Get on.”

I swallowed as the apex between my thighs grew warmer. “On the pillow?”

“Yes.” He tilted his head, pupils so wide his eyes were black. “You want to feel good, Isabella? You want to please me? Get on.”

On shaky feet, I climbed onto the bed and threw my leg over the pillow like I was mounting a horse. Every inch of my skin felt tight, every inch felt loose.

Giovanni remained in his position, leaning against the headboard, half-dressed, staring down at me.

He pressed his finger under my chin, tipping my head up.

My chest rose and fell rapidly.

“Do you feel the press of pillow between your legs?”

I nodded.

“Do you want to orgasm?"”

I nodded once again.

“Hump it.”

Warmth washed up over me. Had he just said...? “That's...”

"Humiliating? Pathetic?" Giovanni's thumb traced my lower lip. “Your husband almost died, and you would deny him?”

“I saved you.” I meant to sound sarcastic, lustful, but instead my voice came out small.

Giovanni placed a hand over my breasts, squeezing the flesh. Arousal shot through me and I wriggled uncomfortably. The pillow rubbed between my legs, the friction instantly sending more heat to my sensitive area.

“I…” My cheeks heated.

“Move, Isabella,” he said softly, gently. “Rock your hips for me.”

Still embarrassed, I moved my hips slowly.

Giovanni dropped his hands to my thighs, his touch causing goosebumps. He rubbed me in slow tantalizing circles.

“Faster, my love. Make yourself feel good.”

I did. The pillow scraped against my clit, sending bolts of pleasure ricocheting through my body. I cried out, falling forward, and leaning on my hands.

“Keep going. Picture me between those legs, eating that pussy. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“Faster now, my love.”

My movements became more erratic, my breasts bobbling up and down as I moved. The orgasm hit me like a train, and I screamed out, embarrassed, and aroused and flushed from head to toe.

Giovanni kissed me deeply.

Then told me to do it again.

 

A soft cry entered my dreams.

I twisted in the blankets, reaching out for Marzia. “S’okay.”. Instead of my stepdaughter’s petite arm, I found the muscled shoulder of my husband.

Another cry sounded.

Consciousness came to me clearly and I pulled myself up to my elbows. My husband’s face was hard to make out in the dark, but he was twisting beneath the blankets.

I ran a soft hand over his forehead and cheeks. “Giovanni, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

Giovanni pulled away from my touch. “Gasparo, don’t–” Pain warped his features.

“Giovanni,” I said louder, shaking his shoulder vigorously. “Giovanni, my love, wake up. It’s okay, it’s just a bad dream–”

He sprung awake, eyes wild and cheeks flushed.

I had never seen Giovanni afraid. Never seen him so…undone.

My heart shattered into a million pieces.

“Giovanni? Are you okay?” I didn’t try and touch him again but positioned myself, so I was in his direct eyeline. Giovanni’s gaze landed on me, and something seemed to sharpen within himself. The fear disappeared, replaced a smooth expression. “Giovanni?” I whispered.

He reached out, smoothing down my errant hair. “Go back to sleep, Isabella.”

“You sounded like you were crying. You sounded afraid.”

Giovanni breathed deeply. “My past is soiled with agony and pain, Isabella. I won’t let it touch you.”

“I would for you,” I said quickly. “I would endure the agony for you.”

His lips twitched. Giovanni stretched out his arms, taking me against his chest and pulling the blanket over me as we lay down. I fell asleep quickly against his chest, but when I woke the next day and spotted the purple bruises beneath his eyes, I knew my husband hadn’t slept all night.

 

XXVI

 

Isabella

 

I stumbled out of the party and onto the balcony, my laughter as loud as the pounding music. Booze and food were being passed around, and I had finally reached my max on shots. The world felt slower and thicker, like I was wading through soup.

I braced myself on the parapet, letting out the air from the city brushed against me. My white silk dress blew around me, a faint orange stain on the skirt from where Lucrezia had accidentally spilt dip on me.

I sucked in the cool air, already feeling sober.

“One too many?”

I snapped my head to the side. My mother leaned against the balcony railing not too far from me, dressed in a familiar coat and wide hat. Her dark eyes peered at me beneath the brim. She was wearing my clothes, most likely from the suitcase I had packed the night everything had went down.

“You got by security by pretending to be me,” I whispered.

Mother’s lips curled. “We look similar sometimes.”

I glanced back inside. Patrons moved to the music, their laughter and voices blending. There was no way anyone could see us…When I had insisted on a party, Giovanni had offered the apartment as the location–even if he did have soldati protecting the bedrooms and taken down all the family photographs.

“Your husband is in the other room, Isabella,” she reminded me.

I knew that. I forced a smile for her. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to be here.”

“Really? I was under the impression that this was the safest place to be,” she said curtly. “it certainly is for Giovanni Vigliano who has my daughter looking out for him and saving his life.”

“It was too obvious,” I argued. “The shipping container is not the slam dunk you think it is.”

“I know that. I thought that having Giovanni shot was that slam dunk.” Mother lifted her face, revealing the rage twisting over her features. “Why did you save him?”

I knew why. She knew why.

“It’s harder than you think,” I whispered, “not falling love with them.”

Mother sent me a confused look. She had no idea what I was going on about.

I stepped forward, imploring her to listen. “Maybe there’s another way. A way in which you and Father can have different territory–”

“Oh, listen to yourself, Isabella,” she snapped. “Your head is in the clouds. As long as there is air in Giovanni Vigliano’s lungs, there will never be peace.”

I swallowed.

“Who do you belong to, Isabella?” Mother asked. “Are you a Lombardi or Vigliano?”

My mouth felt like ash as I said, “Vigliano.”

“As I thought.”

Mother held out her palm, a blade in the centre. “It’s time, my perfect girl. It’s time to take what belongs to us.” She pushed the knife into my grip. “It’s time to become a Lombardi again.”

My eyes reached upwards to the security cameras on the side of the building, and I swallowed against my dry throat.

 

The moment I step back into the party, I knew they knew. Gustavo stepped up to my side, Quintus, and Vincent both find their way into my path.

They know.

My eyes well with tears. Guests ask me what’s wrong, but I shoved them away with airy excuses. The world was being destroyed for me, going up in cosmic explosion, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I beelined to Marzia’s room but Vincent caught my arm. “Get off me,” I hissed.

“I’m not letting you anywhere near her.”

Fury erupted inside of me. “I would never let anything happen to her….Please just let me say goodbye.”

Vincent worked his jaw before releasing my arm. “Go.”

I hurried into Marzia’s room before he could change his mind.

She was dozing under the blankets. We had let her stay up for the party for a few hours, but eventually the clock had hit nine. Giovanni had read her a story and told me she had been asleep before the first chapter ended.

I got to my knees, shaking her softly. Marzia’s eyelids peeled open, confusion in the blue depths.

“Izzy?” She spotted my tears and lifted herself up onto her elbows. “Are you okay?”

I stroked her black hair. “I want to tell you something and it’s very important.”

“Oh, okay.” Seriousness flittered over her features. “What is it?”

I pressed my lips to her forehead, blinking away tears. “You are my daughter. You have been since the moment I held you in my arms. Blood and bone be damned, genetics be damned. I love you, my girl. My daughter. Forgive me.”

Her face softened, melting like putty. “I love you too, Izzy.”

“Good, good,” I whispered. “One other thing.”

She leaned closer.

“A lot of people in your life are going to hate you, like you and love you. But I want you to remember one thing: you are perfection. You are the most extraordinary person I have ever met and the day you came onto Earth, every single soul that lived here was all the better for it.”

Marzia’s grin was blinding. “Thank you. I think you’re perfection, as well.”

I stroked her hair, giving her another kiss on the top of her head.

The bedroom door opened, and I didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. I could hear guests being escorted out of the party and the loud shouts of soldati .

I turned and felt the tears come faster.

Giovanni stood in the archway of the door, features frozen and blue eyes electrified. A few men loitered behind him but nothing was said.

“Get away from my daughter,” he said softly.

“You’re not going to hear me out?”

His gaze met mine. Every inch of my skin felt like it was being flayed. “Is it true?”

I rose to my feet and slowly stepped towards him. My dress trailed behind me like the cloak of a queen. “Yes.”

Giovanni looked away, lips pressed tightly together. When he turned back to me, there was a sheen of apathy over his face that I had never seen before.

“You will be provided for,” he said calmly. “I will make sure you are safe and have everything you need. But you are never to come near my daughter or me ever again. You are nothing but my wife on paper.”

I darted forward. “Giovanni, please listen. I was just doing what my mother told me–”

Giovanni grabbed my wrists, his grip painful. “Do not,” he breathed. “Do not ever touch me again, Lombardi.”

I looked back. Marzia was staring, eyes blow wide.

“Do not look at her,” he snapped. A few of his men shared alarmed looks at their boss’s outright display of emotion.

Giovanni pushed me out into the hallway.

“Giovanni, please,” I tried. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, but I did. You and Marzia are my entire world, Giovanni. You are my world.”

He stared down at me, gaze unforgiving. “You’re not mine.”

I flinched, letting out a hurt cry at his admission. “You don’t mean that–”

Giovanni dragged me down the hall, past the dropped dips and cups and spilled drinks. I dug my feet into the ground, my pleads rising higher and higher.

“Giovanni, please .” I dug my fingers into his blazer. “My love, please, you need to listen to me. I was spying at first but I stopped…I saved your life!”

He didn’t even look at me. “No doubt a cheap ploy to try and gain my trust.”

“You’re not thinking straight. You’re not acting like yourself.”

Giovanni stopped abruptly, swinging me into his arms. His touch was like banded iron against my skin. I breathed heavily.

“You betrayed me, Isabella,” he said, voice tethering on the edge of wrath. “I should kill you. I should cut your tongue out and drop you into the sea.”

I gulped.

“But I can’t. Harming you would be…impossible. I could never harm you, I could never cause you pain.” His fingers trailed down my cheek, his thumb rubbing my lip. “But I also never want to see you again.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” I whispered.

Giovanni nodded. “I know. I know.”

He let of me and stepped back, severing the connection that was between us. My heart let out another wail as it slowly crumbled inside my chest. If you did an autopsy on me right now, the space between my ribs, next to my lungs, would be hollow. The heart that once rested there had been destroyed.

“Isabella!”

Uncle Angelo ran down the hall. His eyes went from Giovanni and I to the dozen of soldati who surrounded us.

“What happened, fragolina ?” He asked.

My lips quivered. “I’m sorry.”

Uncle Angelo’s face broke, then rage bloomed across his brows and nose. He turned his fierce glare to my husband.

“I won’t let you kill her.”

“You don’t let me do anything.” Giovanni waved two fingers. His soldati separated and a handful came towards my uncle. It didn’t take long for them to shove him down onto his knees, even if Uncle Angelo did fight like hell.

“Gustavo, take Isabella.”

My driver came towards me. I shrugged out of his grip.

“Giovanni, I am sorry, okay? Do you want me to beg, to plead? I will!”

He stared at me. “You’re a traitor.”

“My mother called me the same thing,” I snapped. “I gave up my family for you. I gave up everything for the man who slaughtered the people who raised me and made me kill my brother!”

No emotion.

There was nothing in my husband. He was as empty as the first time I saw him.

“My love, please.” My voice broke.

It made no difference. Giovanni had made up his mind.

Gustavo took my elbow, leading me towards the elevator. Sobs racked my chest, and I didn’t care enough to hide my misery. When my bodyguard sent me a disgusted look, I gave him the finger.

 

XXVII

 

Isabella

 

The car came to a stop, and I woke up suddenly. My face was flushed against the cool window, my cheeks sticky from crying. Aches and pains resonated all over my limbs, and I gave a big stretch.

“Why did we stop?” I asked groggily.

Gustavo had gone very still in the driver’s seat.

“Gust–”

“GET DOWN!”

I threw myself down onto the leather seats, heart leaping in my throat. Gunshots sounded all around me, and the back window shattered, glass blowing over me.

I let out a scream.

There was no way I was dying here.

I dragged my legs up, tucking myself under the door. Voices shouted and boomed, my bodyguards in the mix. The gunshots sounded like hail against the bonnet and doors of the car, so loud the sounds rattled my teeth.

Gustavo lunged out the car and–

My bodyguard hit the side of the car, blood spurting over his window. A scream clawed its way up my throat. God, not Gustavo. Please not Gustavo–

Silence.

It felt so quiet so quickly I thought I had lost my hearing. But then the soft murmur of masculine voices grew louder and louder.

I crawled over the backseat, shoving open the door. With little grace, I fell onto the ground like a sack of potatoes. Gravel dug into my exposed knees and palms, but I shoved down the discomfort. I had no idea where I was but I knew I didn’t want to head in the direction of the bullets–

“Ah, principessa.”

A hand grabbed the back of my neck and yanked me to my feet. I let out a howl, scratching and clawing.

“Not falling for that this time,” laughed the man. “Now, take a deep breath for me.”

“Go fuck yourself–!”

He shoved a cloth over my mouth, the smell of nail polish remover overwhelming my senses. I clawed and struggled–

Darkness took me fast, dropping into me like a brick.

 

The zip ties dug into my wrists.

My soft skin didn’t share my sentiments of being created and forged from iron. No, beneath the pressure, my skin split like a soft peach, summoning blood and pain to the surface.

But that was the least of my worries.

They had trapped me in the back of a truck, which was rotten with dried blood and moulding in each corner. I couldn’t see very well but the smells told me all I needed to know–this was transport.

And I was being delivered to my death.

I struggled against the restraints, but each movement summoned a new feeling of pain. My arms ached, my ribs were bruised, my stomach hollow. Stinging and throbbing sensations seemed to cling to me with the same pressure as my dress and shoes, settling on me like another outfit.

With a heave, I resigned and leaned against the wall behind me. The vibrations of the car driving rumbled through my bones, chattering my teeth.

I chanted my identity to myself, a vain attempt to stop myself from going crazy.

Second daughter.

I was Isabella Geltrude Vigliano, born Lombardi. I was the daughter of Vitale and Maria Lombardi. I was the younger sister of Vitale Junior and…and Isabella Lombardi. My sister died when she was seven; I am her replacement.

Second mother.

I was the stepmother to Marzia Ines Vigliano. I took her to the museum and listened to her talk dreamily about history.

Second wife.

I was the wife of Giovanni Vigliano, son of Lorenzo Vigliano and an unknown woman. He was the only one who could hold the flames of my rage in his hands and not be burned.

I…loved him very much.

I love him very much.

Even if he wanted me dead.

The truck rolled to a stop. Voices boomed outside, and they grew closer and closer. The lock shook as it was opened, and a stream of sunlight came soaring into the once dark space.

“It’s time.” One of my captors said.

It’s time.

I was pulled out of the van and dragged to my feet. I shoved at my captors, still groggy and slow from the chloroform. “Fucking assholes,” I hissed.

“That’s enough, Isabella.”

I snapped my head to the side. Mother and Father were waiting for me, arms wrapped around each other. They looked like a charming old married couple waving to their children from the driveaway as they drove away.

I thought I had no more tears to cry but I was wrong. Another sob welled up in my chest.

Mother stepped forward, reaching out. I let her wrap an arm around my shoulders, her touch almost making me nauseous. She pressed a delicate kiss on my cheek.

“We’re proud of you, Isabella,” Father said.

I stared at him. “You’re…?”

“We’re proud of you,” Mother repeated. “It was a lot to ask of you and you did better than any of our other spies.”

“I…” The world was spinning too fast, I couldn’t keep up. “You’re proud of me?”

Father squeezed my shoulder. It was the most affection he had ever shown me.

The child who lived inside of me preened at the attention. No longer was I waiting by the playground for my mother to show up, but now I was being hugged and complimented by the people I had once loved the most.

Maybe I had died , I thought, and now I am in some strange dream before my soul entered Heaven.

Maybe this was Heaven.

It can’t be , I told myself. Giovanni and Marzia aren’t here.

Mother gave me another squeeze. “Come inside, Isabella. We have so much to tell you.”

I followed my parents into the cabin, half-leaning on my mother. When I passed the threshold, the first thing I realized was: there’s a painting of sweet Isabella on the wall.

 

XXVIII

 

Maria Lombardi

 

The ugliness inside of me grew stronger each day.

Some days I woke up surprised that the green monster who lived in my gut hadn’t climbed out during the night, its spindly tentacles tearing through my stomach and muscle and skin until it was free from its flesh prisoner. It lurked inside of me throughout the day, growing stronger as Vitale dismissed me, and I passed the family photographs.

It was the day I spotted my sister-in-law bent over a toilet, that the monster finally burst free.

Lucia was a sweet woman, who tendered to her strawberries and husbands needs. She liked watercolours and listening to people talk about themselves. Whenever we were alone together, she shivered, like her tender sensibilities couldn’t handle being in the same room as a monster.

“Are you sick?” I asked.

Lucia went pink. “A little bit.”

“Morning sickness?”

She said nothing. The dirt that covered my daughter’s grave was still fresh. Lucia getting pregnant, her welcoming a new baby into the Lombardi household so soon after the death of mine…It was unforgivable.

The monster cooed in agreement.

That night, I lay in the dark, counting Vitale’s breaths. When the insomnia grew too great, I went to my daughter’s room and stood amongst the dusty furniture. Her laughter and scent clung to the room, and sometimes I could see her from the corner of my eye, her angelic face puckered with delight as she discovered the world.

That should be my baby , I thought to myself. My baby lives here, her room is here, all her stuff and memories. Her entire life is in this house, in these hallways .

Lucia stole your baby , the monster whispered.

I frowned at the thought. Lucia didn’t steal my baby. My baby was asleep in the Earth, her soul dancing amongst the clouds in Heaven. I went back to bed and dreamt of my daughter.

A few weeks later, Angelo and Lucia stood up at dinner, their faces shining with happiness. They showed off the ultrasound and we all cheered as was customary. When asked what gender it was, Lucia sighed lovingly and said, “A girl. We’re having a girl.”

A girl. A daughter.

My daughter.

The thought was erratic, insane. The idea was a symptom of my grief. Rationally, I knew my womb was not swelling with a daughter, but rather my sisters-in-laws. Yet, I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

Your daughter, your daughter , the monster continued to whisper.

When Lucia reached her fifth month, Vitale decided he was ready to rekindle our marriage. I had mourned the loss of my husband, but it had become secondary in my mind these past few weeks. He took me in his arms after dinner, lips trailing over my cheeks and neck.

When I didn’t respond, he said, “I know you miss Bella,” he said. “I miss her too. Some days I wake up and I can hear her giggling, or I roll over in the night and feel her little foot digging into my back as she recounts a nightmare.”

Fathers loved their children, they mourned them, I knew this. But Vitale had no idea what it was like to build something from scratch, to knit together someone’s blood and bones and heart. He had no idea what it was like to dance with Death just to bring your child onto Earth.

“I want my daughter,” I said.

“I know you do.” He rubbed my arms. “We have Junior. He is enough.”

No, he wasn’t.

“I would do anything to bring you back to me, Maria,” my husband said. “I would do anything to hear your thoughts and have my wife back. I miss you. I miss you more than I miss our daughter.”

“I miss you too.” His declaration was romantic, but it was his exact phrasing that caught the attention of the monster.

I would do anything to bring you back to me, Maria .

Anything?

Lucia grew fatter and fatter, her swollen belly a constant mockery. As she formed the child in her womb, I formed a plan in my mind. I did it secretly at first, hiding away from my morals and subconscious, but eventually, I was writing down notes and taking measures to carry it out.

I hid from the public, and when I had to be seen, I wore a large coat over my form. I went to the OB/Gyn for papsmears, but my gossiping bodyguard didn’t know that. I ordered baby furniture; I didn’t let myself eat soft cheeses.

On the day of the baby shower, the woman clumped around Lucia. They begged to know what the baby’s name was.

Isabella , the monster said.

Lucia laughed in that pretty way of hers, like she spent her days roaming blooming meadows and sucking on overripe berries. “Domitilla. Her name is Domitilla Lombardi.”

August came and the first year of my daughter’s death loomed. I waited and waited, then on the 29^th , the same day my baby died, Lucia welcomed her daughter into the world. Angelo rang us from the hospital and invited us to come see our niece.

The monster packed a gun into my handbag.

We arrived at the hospital and Vitale noticed my nervous energy. “We don’t have to see the baby if it’s too hard for you,” he told me.

I just said, “Remember when you told me you would do anything to bring me back to you?”

“I do.”

I kissed him. “I want you to remember that.”

Vitale said nothing. For all our issues, Vitale Lombardi and I knew each other. We had nursed our evilness beside each other’s, growing them together like vines intwining over the side of an old building. He looked down at my purse, then back at me, but remained silent.

We stepped into the hospital room. Angelo was beside Lucia, both glowing and staring at the bundle of joy in her cot. A pink blanket was wrapped around her.

I stepped closer and felt my heart drop.

It was my daughter. It was her brown hair and button nose and dark blue eyes that would turn brown in a few weeks. It was her . My Isabella, my girl. The baby stared up at me, almost like she knew who I was. Her wrinkly hands swung around.

“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” Angelo said lovingly. “Her name is Domitilla. We’ve been calling her Domi.”

I put my purse down on the bed. “She’s perfection.”

Eventually, Vitale invited Angelo down to the cafeteria. The men went on the hunt for food, which was code for a smoke and drink in the downtown pub.

Lucia shivered when she realized it was us alone but continued to stare at my daughter, besotted. “I think she’ll be a painter,” she said, touching her tiny fingers. “Look at these hands. These are the hands of an artist.”

I grabbed a spare pillow from the closet, fluffing it in my hands.

Lucia smiled. “I don’t need another pillow. Thank you.”

I just smiled.

My sister-in-law went pale. “Please. She’s…she needs me…”

“She needs me.”

To this day, I still recalled how it felt to suffocate Lucia. How she struggled and screamed and scratched at me. Some of those scars remain on my wrists, little pink reminders of what I endured to get my daughter back. Perhaps I hadn’t created her, but I had destroyed for her. Wasn’t that the same thing?

She died and slumped onto the bed.

I picked up the baby, swinging her gently in my arms. She let out a furious cry.

“It’s okay, little principessa ,” I told her. “There’s no need to get angry.”

Angelo and Vitale returned not long after. My brother-in-law reacted badly as expected, always the more emotional of the Lombardi boys. He tried to kill me, but Vitale pinned him down, scarring his cheek and warning him.

I thought Angelo would kill himself rather than have his daughter taken from him. However, I had underestimated just how much cowardice ran in his veins. Angelo hated me, hated Vitale, but he resumed his job as capo and didn’t say anything about how I got my second daughter.

How easy crimes were forgotten in the face of power.

Angelo was weak. He didn’t deserve to raise a Lombardi princess.

The first day at home, Isabella cried nonstop and didn’t stop fussing for anyone. The second day the same, and the third and fourth. She wasn’t sweet or kind, she didn’t giggle or smile. No, my daughter was constantly scowling, constantly releasing her bowels, and seemed to enjoy making my life a living hell.

When she was five months old, I was bathing her and trying to get a smile. Most babies began smiling earlier but my daughter had a constant frown on her face. She splashed me with water, peed in the sink and then began crying when I tried to shampoo her hair.

I hated her, I realized in that moment. This changeling was not my Isabella, this creature was not my daughter.

This creature…This thing was no angel but rather a demon.

Isabella couldn’t fight back when I pushed her beneath the water. Her chubby little legs and fists kicked furiously, her body twisting in discomfort. It would be quicker if only she stopped moving–

“Mom, I’m home!”

I dragged her out from under the water, quickly towelling her dry. Isabella let out a banshee cry before falling strangely quiet. Not a minute later, Junior stepped into the kitchen, dirtied up from school. He grinned at his sister and tickled her foot. Isabella didn’t giggle.

I thought about killing her a few more times after that. It wouldn’t be hard. Perhaps I could give her the same death as her mother, smothering her silently in her crib. I thought about dropping her, about leaving her to her own devices for a few hours. I even thought about putting some arsenic into her formula.

As Isabella got older, it became clearer and clearer to me that she wasn’t my daughter. She swore, and yelled, and shrieked. She bit me. She liked to be loud and get in trouble at school. When we told her to do something, she immediately did the opposite. There was nothing soft or gentle about her, she was brimstone and rage.

She…she was like me.

When she was seven, her teacher called me in a huff. In class, Isabella had been instructed to write about what she wanted to be when she was older. Most of the kids said astronaut or ballerina, cop, or princess. But not Isabella.

She wrote: When I grow up, I want to be terrifying.

It was in this moment I realized: I hadn’t brought my daughter back from the hospital.

I had brought me .

The next time, I looked in the mirror, the monster stared back. No longer caged by my ribs, but now it made a home in my eyes and mouth. Monster, monster, monster .

Twenty-four years later, I stared at my daughter across the table of the cabin. She was a wreck, psychically and emotionally. She had never been happier than she had been with the Viglianos, I knew that. I knew that she had loved them, loved them in way I had never loved anything.

And in that moment, watching her staring blankly at the wall, all the fight in her bones gone, I realized: I had never loved Isabella more than I did right now.

I kissed her hair the way I had seen other mothers do. She stared at me.

“Don’t worry, my perfect Isabella,” I whispered. “You will be grow up to be terrifying. I will train you, teach you. You can be the first Isabella, the only Isabella.”

Isabella sagged in my arms. I held her the same way I had when I had first met her.

Against her the crowd of her head, I whispered, “It’s time to take back what was stolen from us. It’s time to take back the Lombardi kingdom.”

 

To be continued…

 

Other Books by Bree Porter

 

The Rocchetti Dynasty.

Tropes: arranged marriage, partners-in-crime, surprised pregnancy.

Sophia knows exactly what her role is as a mob daughter and wife. Yet, she marries the infamous Alessandro ‘The Godless’ Rocchetti, she is unable to deny her ambition and cunning any longer. With betrayals from both family and foe, Alessandro and Sophia must work together to gain power...and become the king and queen of Chicago.

Buy the first book here.

 

The Tarkhanov Empire.

Tropes: obsessed boy trope, secret baby, found family.

When Elena is widowed by the charismatic Konstantin Tarkhanov, he offers her a deal: heal his sick family member and be granted freedom or fail and be returned to her family. Determined to gain her freedom, Elena finds herself sucked into the Tarkhanov Bratva...and into the arms of Konstantin Tarkhanov.

Buy the first book here.