Chapter 40
Lucia
Ican’t breathe. Not because I’m dying, but for a split second, I’m convinced the worst is still to come.
As my shaky hands claw at the bulletproof vest Dante forced me to wear, I try to make sense of what happened.
I was shot. Actually shot.
The vest caught the bullet, thank god, but the impact site feels like someone swung a sledgehammer into my ribs. The pain is so sudden and blinding that my brain blanks. I double over as everything I thought I knew turns on its end.
I didn’t anticipate this much pain today.
The hurt isn’t from being shot. It’s from realizing family can still hurt you this deeply, even when you are an adult.
Carmela raised me from age four. She wasn’t perfect, often favoring her biological daughter over me, but she was the only stability I had when my mother’s addiction took her away from me.
My mother was an orphan, and my father refused to acknowledge my existence since it would call out his infidelities, so I was destined for foster care until Carmela tossed me a lifeline.
I spent my entire childhood attempting to pay back my apparent debt. My efforts were pointless. Nothing I ever did was good enough for Carmela. She hated me on sight, and her hate grew when I gave away the virginity she’d auctioned off mere weeks before my nuptials to the highest bidder.
Thank god she’s a terrible shot. If she believed she could land a clean kill with one bullet, she would’ve aimed for my head.
My thoughts return to the present when I sense I am being watched. I can’t see Dante, but I feel his eyes moving over every inch of my body, checking for injuries.
“I’m okay,” I breathe out slowly, my voice on the verge of a sob.
I’m physically okay, but mentally, I’m a wreck.
This morning’s showdown didn’t go as planned. I didn’t even get to see my son before Carmela proved greed will always triumph over love for her.
“The vest caught the bullet.”
I assume I’m imagining Dante’s relieved sigh until the voice from my dreams trickles into my ears. “If you could pick between the sun lighting up your life or the moon, which would you choose?”
Perhaps I did die?
I’ve only been asked that question once before.
It was a long time ago, when I was still na?ve enough to believe in superheroes.
“Which would you pick, Lucia?” Dante asks, his voice slicing through the pounding of my pulse in my ears.
When I turn my head toward his voice, I spot the outline of his body in the shadows at the boundary of the lot. As previously discussed, he’s keeping a safe distance in case anyone is still watching.
I was highly skeptical coming into this that Edoardo would show up with Gabriele. I was just desperate enough to give anything a go.
“Lucia?”
Although confused why Dante needs to ask this question now, I’ll never not respond to a query that conquers up memories of the night my son was conceived. “I’d pick the moon because even during someone’s darkest hour, it always shines.”
I sit up, heart aching. Knowing my stepmother has access to my son terrifies me more than any weapon ever could.
Tears blur my vision as I drink in every face under the age of ten bypassing the vacant lot to reach the ferry before it leaves. I pray for Gabriele to appear, but all I’m rewarded is more disappointment.
Dante’s voice barges through the stormy clouds homing in on me. “They never intended to hand him over.”
“I know,” I whisper, ashamed by how easily I was fooled and that I dragged Dante and his family into this.
It’s insane how easily you forget basic common sense when your desperation is at a pinnacle. If someone is morally corrupt enough to barter a payday for their child, they’d never keep their side of the deal.
Before I can say anything that will have Dante worried he’s fighting for equality for the wrong woman, he asks, “What costume was Gabriele’s father wearing the night he was conceived?”
A crinkle creases the middle of my forehead, his line of questioning baffling me. “What?”
“The man.” His voice is low but urgent. “The one from the night Gabriele was conceived. What costume was he wearing?”
Why is he asking me this now? My son is at the mercy of the Wicked Witch of the West. Edoardo’s parenting techniques are the bottom of the barrel, but they’re better than the cruelty Carmela unleashes when she believes she’s been done wrong.
Me walking out of a marriage worth billions because I was pregnant with another man’s child gives her plenty of ammunition.
And don’t get me started on her being sent to do Edoardo’s bidding or I may burst into tears.
Despite my confusion, I answer slowly, “Zorro. He went as Zorro.”
I can hear Dante’s heaving chest from here.
“It’s you,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s fucking you.” A ghost from my past floats between the despair when he adds, “You wore a wig. Your hair was short, a pixie cut, and your eyes were brown.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, too shocked not to respond.
I always wore wigs when in character. Pretending to be excited about marrying a man twice my age was an Oscar-worthy performance. Only the night of my hen’s party did I feel myself, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol I consumed to try to forget.
Dante shouldn’t know any of that. I’ve never told anyone about the night my child’s conception shattered a multimillion-dollar alliance.
“Don’t. Please,” I plead to Dante when one step unshadows his polished boots and his belt buckle. Gabriele is still out there, so we have to keep our deception going a little longer.
Dante freezes before asking, “Have you ever seen Gabriele, Lucia?”
Tears prick my eyes as I nod. “We FaceTime—”
“Not on a screen,” he interrupts, words firing from his mouth. “When he was born. Did you see him then?”
Pain burns through my chest when my mind flashes back to that day. The pain was horrific. I thought my body was tearing apart. Gabriele was breech. I begged for help, but my stepmother told me to stop being so dramatic and push.
I’d never felt pain like that, but it was nothing compared to the hurt that shredded through me when I didn’t even get to hold Gabriele before they took him away from me.
I tried to fight, but I was hemorrhaging badly. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t even lift my head.
“No,” I whisper, choking on a sob. “I never saw him.”
Dante’s balk ripples through the air. Then he speaks words that shatter the ground beneath me. “Gabriele isn’t your son, Lucia.”
I jerk back as my fury rises so fast it burns. “How dare you!”
I’m furious, but then he says something else. Something impossible. Something only one person has ever said to me. “The moon and the sun don’t always get to see each other, but they both need each other in order to properly shine.”
That line was whispered in my ear on the night my life changed forever.
A jolt rockets through my body when Dante uses my shock to his advantage. He steps out of an alcove of an abandoned building. His clean-shaven face concealed partially by a mask slams memories of the night Gabriele was conceived into me.
The mask, the heat, and the way the unnamed stranger made me feel seen tumble through me until I suddenly see the truth.
Until I suddenly see him.
“No, it can’t be. Edoardo—”
“Lied. He lied to you, Lucia.”
I shake my head, too shocked to let the truth settle in my heart. “Why would he do that?”
Dante pulls off the mask, exposing a facial structure that shunts me back five years. “Because you said it yourself. He lies, cheats, and steals to get what he needs.”
“I-I gave birth.” My stammer can’t be helped. I’m on the edge of a very steep cliff, seconds from free-falling.
“You did,” he agrees with me. “You just didn’t give birth to a little boy.” He knows his following words will hurt me, but he can’t keep the truth from me a moment longer. “Gabriele isn’t your child, Lucia. Camille is.”
Shock engulfs me so furiously I sway.
It barely lasts a second since terror immediately follows it.
“Where is Camille?” I shout, my naturally engrained maternal instincts breaking through the confusion. “They didn’t drag you into the open for no reason. They wanted you distracted.” Because they know what took me weeks to work out. He would give it all away for me.
Dante’s pupils expand to saucers, but he maintains calm.
“They’ll never reach her at the compound.
She’s safe there. You need to be on a list to enter…
” His words trail off as fear jolts him back two places.
“It’s Monday.” I’m lost until he adds, “They’re on the list. I placed them on the fucking list.”
Without another word spoken between us, we sprint for the surveillance van I spotted during our commute.
Dante barks out orders before his feet even land inside the van. “Call head of security. Now.”
Terror clutches my throat when Nico replies, “I’ve already tried to reach out. Three times. No answer. Whoever the mole is has infiltrated our security system and shut down comms. Anyone in the compound is a sitting fucking duck. We can’t issue them a single warning.”
That’s all Giovanni needs to hear to floor the gas. He races out of the wharf area at a speed far too fast to be safe, but no one cites an objection.
As Giovanni takes the weaving streets of Carlisle like a race car driver, Nico brings up real-time satellite imagery of the compound. I don’t breathe when he zooms in so fast it takes the pixelation a minute to clear.
My lungs finally answer the screaming demands of my head when everything looks how it should be. There are no burned buildings, no deceased guards. Even the main gates are closed and guarded by two men with machine guns strapped to their chests.
I try to tell Dante that this is a good sign, that Camille is safe, but my gut won’t let me. It’s been twisted up in knots for the past hour, and no number of false reassurances will loosen its clutch.