I don't know how long I sit there. Time moves strangely when your world collapses. Eventually, I hear footsteps in the bedroom, followed by a gentle knock on the bathroom door.
"Rosaria." Salvatore's voice is soft, careful. "Let me in."
I can't form words, can barely draw breath between sobs.
The door opens anyway. He must have picked the lock or forced it. He kneels beside me on the cold tile and pulls me into his arms without asking what's wrong. He already knows.
His embrace is warm, solid, anchoring me to earth when I feel ready to float away. I press my face against his chest and breathe in his scent.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs against my hair. "I'm so fucking sorry."
I tilt my head back to look at him. His green eyes are dark with fury and regret—maybe—or guilt.
"It's not your fault," I whisper.
"Yes, it is."
He cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears. Then he kisses me with desperate intensity, as if he can pour all his apologies into the contact. I kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring all my grief and rage into the connection between us.
We move together with frantic need, clothes disappearing piece by piece onto the bathroom floor. His hands worship every inch of my skin, mapping the changes pregnancy has brought to my body. I lose myself in sensation, in the heat of his mouth and the strength of his arms that pin me to his chest as I slide onto his lap, still sobbing. When I pull away to catch my breath, a sharp knock at the bedroom door shatters the peace.
"Boss." Gianni's voice carries urgency. "I have the package."
Salvatore goes rigid beneath me. He sits up abruptly, careful not to jar me with sudden movements. "Five minutes."
"What package?" I ask, but he's already moving.
He lifts me off him and sets me on the edge of the bathtub before straightening his shirt. "Stay here."
"Salvatore—"
"Stay here, Rosaria. Please."
But I can't. The tone in Gianni's voice, the tension in Salvatore's shoulders—something terrible is about to happen. I wash my face quickly and follow him downstairs, bare feet silent on the marble steps.
The front door stands open. Beyond it, the circular driveway is populated by three nondescript black SUVs. Three figures kneel in the gravel, hands bound behind their backs, dark hoods over their heads.
My heart stops.
Bruno and two other men stand behind the kneeling figures, guns trained on their skulls. Gianni waits beside Salvatore, holding a fourth weapon.
"Remove the hoods," Salvatore orders.
The fabric falls away, revealing three faces I know better than my own.
Rocco. My shadow, my protector since childhood. Blood streams from his nose, and his left eye is swollen shut.
Victor. My cousin, Emilio's son. His lip is split, teeth stained red.
And Emilio. My uncle, my guardian, my destroyer. He looks smaller than I remember, diminished by captivity and fear. But his eyes still burn with the same cold rage that has defined my entire life.
"No." The word tears from my throat. "No, please."
I run toward them, bare feet cutting on the sharp gravel. Salvatore catches me before I reach the kneeling men, his arms locking around my waist.
"Let me go!" I struggle against his grip. "Uncle, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Emilio's gaze finds mine across the distance. For a moment, his expression softens. Then it hardens again, colder than winter stone.
