Every step takes me further from Dante, further from the life we could have had. My chest feels hollow, like someone reached inside and scooped out everything vital. I've never felt homesick before—the Rosso house was never home—but this aching emptiness must be what it feels like. Except home isn't a place. It's a person I left sleeping in a safehouse, and I'll never see him again.
The miles blur together. My feet throb, sharp pains shooting up my calves with each step. Branches catch at my hair and scratch my arms, but I barely notice. The physical pain is nothing compared to the weight of what I've done.
By the time I reach the main road, the sun is high overhead and my water bottle is empty. The bus stop is a small concrete shelter with a cracked plastic bench and a faded schedule posted on the side. According to the times, I have a twenty-minute wait.
I collapse onto the bench, finally allowing myself to feel the full extent of my exhaustion. My feet are on fire, blisters forming where my wet socks have rubbed against my shoes. My stomach gnaws with hunger, but the thought of food makes me nauseous.
What if I made the wrong choice? What if Dante would rather have me than his position with Vito? The doubt creeps in like poison, making me question everything.
No. I shake my head firmly. I saw the conflict in his eyes when he chose me. I heard the pain in his voice when he talked about betraying Vito. He would have regretted it eventually, andthat regret would have poisoned whatever we had together. This way, at least I can protect him from that choice.
The bus arrives with a wheeze of hydraulic brakes and diesel fumes. The driver barely glances at me as I pay my fare and find a seat in the back. Through the grimy window, I watch the forest disappear, taking the safehouse—and Dante—with it.
I'm settling into my seat when I notice him—a middle-aged man about halfway up the aisle. Ruddy complexion, thinning reddish hair, the kind of pale eyes that seem colorless in certain light. He's trying to look casual, reading a newspaper, but I catch him glancing back at me twice.
Paranoia, I tell myself. I'm jumpy because of everything that's happened.
The man gets off two stops before mine, not even looking in my direction as he passes. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Just my imagination after all.
The city comes into view slowly, familiar skylines that should feel like coming home but instead feel like walking into a trap. Every building, every street corner holds memories of my old life, the one where I was Sofia Gallo, sister to the Don's wife, bargaining chip in a war I never chose to fight.
I'll have to be smarter now. Create a new identity, find work that pays cash, stay invisible. The skills Dante taught me about thinking strategically will serve me well, even if he'll never know it.
The bus shudders to a stop at the main terminal downtown. I gather my bag and stand on unsteady legs, my muscles stiff from the long ride. Just a few more steps and I'll disappear into the crowd, become just another face in the city.
I step off the bus and immediately know something's wrong.
There are too many men loitering around the terminal. Not the usual commuters—these guys are trying to look casual but failing. Jeans and leather jackets mostly, a few in flannel shirts.Working-class Irish, if I had to guess. My stomach clenches as I spot the man from the bus standing near a newspaper stand, no longer bothering to hide the fact that he's watching me.
I take a step backward, but it's too late. They're already moving, closing in from multiple directions with practiced efficiency. My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize there's nowhere to run.
A figure emerges from behind a black sedan—this one different from the others. Expensive suit, perfectly styled blond hair, the kind of sharp, aristocratic features that scream old money. He approaches with the confident stride of someone who's never doubted his own authority.
"Going somewhere, princess?"
The endearment sounds wrong coming from his mouth, a mockery of the way Dante says it. I straighten my spine, refusing to show fear even as my pulse races.
"Who are you supposed to be?"
His smile is cold, predatory. "Don't you recognize your fiancé?" He extends his hand in a mockery of politeness. "Kieran Costello."
I think of the letter I left for Dante, telling him not to come after me. For the first time since leaving the safehouse, I hope he doesn't listen.
CHAPTER 28
Dante
Something's wrong.
I know it before I'm fully awake, that instinct honed by years of sleeping with one eye open kicking in. The bed feels too empty, too cold. My arm reaches across the mattress, searching for Sofia's warmth, but finds only rumpled sheets.
"Princess?" My voice is rough with sleep, echoing in the quiet safehouse.
Silence.
I sit up, scanning the room. Her clothes are gone. The small bag—gone too. Panic starts as a cold knot in my stomach, spreading outward like ice water in my veins.
That's when I see the letter on the pillow.
