21. Adriana
ADRIANA
The room smells like mildew and rot, and there's a single window, boarded up from the outside, thin strips of gray daylight filtering through the gaps between the planks. I can hear traffic in the distance and the occasional wail of a siren, the sounds of a city that has no idea we're here.
Matteo is pressed against my side, his small body trembling.
There's a bruise blooming purple and yellow along his cheekbone where one of Gio's men slapped him, and another on his upper arm in the shape of fingers.
His lip is split, dried blood crusted at the corner of his mouth.
He hasn't said much since they threw us in here hours ago.
He just clings to me with a desperation that breaks my heart.
"Mama," he whispers, his voice hoarse from crying. "When is he coming?"
I know he means Lachlan. "Soon, baby." I smooth his hair back from his forehead, my fingers catching on tangles. "He'll come soon."
"What if he doesn't?" Matteo's eyes are terrified, and I can see the doubt there. The fear that maybe Lachlan won't come at all. That maybe we're not worth the risk.
"He will." I pull him closer. "He promised, remember? He said he'd protect us."
Matteo nods, but I can feel the tension in his small frame, like he's afraid that if he moves too much, something terrible will happen.
I've seen this before, back at the estate when Gio would come home in one of his moods.
Matteo learned early how to make himself small, how to disappear into the background and hope he wouldn't be noticed.
I hate that he knows how to do that. Hate that I couldn't protect him from learning.
The door rattles, and Matteo flinches against me. I wrap my arms around him tighter, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. The lock clicks, and then the door swings open.
Gio stands in the doorway, backlit by the dim light from the hallway beyond. He's dressed impeccably as always, his dark hair slicked back from his face. He looks like he's stepped out of a boardroom, not into a decrepit house on the South Side where he's holding his sister and nephew prisoner.
Two of his men flank him, both armed, watching us with a detached interest that makes my skin crawl. I recognize one of them. The other is younger, someone I don't know, but he has the same dead eyes as all of Gio's men.
"Adriana." Gio's voice is pleasant, almost warm, like we're meeting for lunch instead of this. "I hope you've been comfortable."
I don't answer. I just hold Matteo tighter and stare at my brother, trying to keep the fear off my face.
Gio steps into the room, his shoes clicking against the bare floorboards. He looks around, taking in the peeling wallpaper, the water-stained ceiling, the general decay of the place. "I know it's not what you're used to. Not quite as nice as Gallagher's penthouse, is it? But it'll do for now."
"What do you want, Gio?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel, and I'm grateful for that small mercy.
"What do I want?" He tilts his head, considering the question like it's something he's never thought about before. "I want my family back, Adriana. I want things to go back to the way they were before that Irish bastard decided to play hero."
"I'm not going back." The words are out before I can stop them, and I see Gio's expression shift, something dark flickering across his face.
"You don't have a choice." He takes another step closer, and I instinctively pull Matteo behind me, putting my body between him and my brother. "You never had a choice. You're a Santoro. You belong with your family."
"You're not my family." I'm shaking, but I force myself to meet his eyes. "You stopped being my family when you helped lock me in that house and treated me like a prisoner."
Gio's smile turns cold. "I protected you. I gave you everything you needed. A roof over your head, food, clothes, safety. And this is how you repay me? By running off with some Irish thug who thinks he can take what's mine?"
"I'm not yours. I never was."
"You're wrong." Gio crouches down in front of me, bringing himself to eye level. His cologne is overpowering in the small space, expensive and cloying. "You've always been mine, Adriana. And so is he."
His gaze shifts to Matteo, who's pressed against my back, his small hands fisted in my shirt. I feel him go rigid, feel the terror radiating off him in waves.
"No." The word comes out as a whisper, barely audible. "Gio, please—"
"He's a Santoro." Gio's voice is matter-of-fact. "He has Santoro blood in his veins, and it's time he learned what that means. You've coddled him for too long, Adriana. That ends now."
Fear floods through me, and I can feel myself starting to shake harder. "He's just a child, Gio. Please, don't do this."
"I was younger than him when I started learning the business." Gio stands, brushing dust from his pants. "Matteo's behind schedule, but we can fix that. He'll come with me, and I'll teach him what it means to be a man. What it means to be a Santoro."
"No." I leap to my feet, putting myself between Gio and Matteo, my hands spread wide like I can physically stop what's about to happen. "You're not taking him. I won't let you."
Gio's expression doesn't change. "You don't have a say in this, Adriana. You lost that right when you ran away with Gallagher."
He nods to the younger man, who steps forward. I try to block him and keep myself between him and Matteo, but the other guard grabs my arms and yanks me backward. I fight, kicking and clawing, but he's too strong, his grip like iron around my wrists.
"Mama!" Matteo's scream is high and terrified, and it cuts through me like a knife. "Mama, no! Don't let them take me!"
"Matteo!" I'm screaming too, thrashing against the guard's hold, but it's useless. The man has Matteo now, lifting him off the ground even as he kicks and struggles. "Let him go! Gio, please, don't do this! I'll do anything, just don't take him!"
"You should have thought of that before you left." Gio's voice is calm, almost bored. "He's coming with me. You'll see him again when I decide you've earned it."
"No! No, please!" I'm sobbing now, my vision blurring with tears. Matteo is reaching for me, his small hands grasping at air, his face twisted with terror and confusion. "Matteo, baby, it's okay! It's going to be okay!"
But it's not okay. Nothing about this is okay. They carry Matteo toward the door, and my son is screaming, crying, begging them to let him go. "Mama! Mama, help me! Please!"
"I love you!" I shout, desperate for him to know that I'm not abandoning him. "I love you so much, Matteo! I'm going to get you back, I promise!"
And then they're gone. The door slams shut, the lock clicking into place, and Matteo's screams fade as they carry him away. The guard releases me, and I collapse to the floor, my legs giving out beneath me.
I can still hear him. Faintly, through the walls, I can hear my son crying for me, calling my name. And I can't get to him. Can't hold him or comfort him or tell him it's going to be alright.
The sound of his cries grows fainter, more distant, until finally, there's nothing. Just silence.
I don't know how long I stay there on the floor. Time has lost all meaning. All I can feel is the absence of Matteo's weight against my side, the cold space where he should be. All I can hear is the echo of his screams, playing over and over in my head like a nightmare I can't wake up from.
My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together, but it's not working.
I'm falling apart, fracturing into a thousand pieces that I don't know how to put back together.
He took my son. The thought is a scream inside my head, primal and desperate.
He took my son, and I couldn't stop him.
I've been afraid before. Ten years of living under Gio's control taught me what fear was, taught me how to swallow it down and keep moving because there was no other choice.
But this is different. This is a fear so profound it feels like it's eating me alive from the inside out.
Matteo isn't just in danger. He's with Gio.
And Gio is going to do exactly what he promised—he's going to turn my gentle, sweet boy into something hard and cruel.
He's going to teach him violence and brutality and all the things I've spent nine years trying to protect him from.
And I can't stop it. I can't do anything except sit here in this cold, rotting room and wait.
The door opens again, and I don't bother looking up, or trying to compose myself or wipe away the tears. What's the point?
"You know, I almost feel sorry for you."
Gio's voice. He couldn't just leave me alone with my grief. He has to twist the knife, has to make sure I understand exactly how powerless I am.
"Fuck you." The words come out broken, but I mean them with every fiber of my being.
"Such language." I hear him move closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate. "Is that what Gallagher taught you? How to curse like a common whore?"
I don't answer.
"He's not coming, you know." Gio's voice is almost friendly. "Gallagher. He's not coming to save you."
"Yes, he is." I force the words out, even though doubt is already creeping in, cold and insidious. "He'll come."
"Will he?" Gio crouches down beside me, and I can feel him watching me even though I'm not looking at him.
"Think about it, Adriana. He had you in his penthouse, surrounded by guards, with every security measure money can buy.
And I still got to you. I walked right in and took you and your son, and he couldn't stop me. "
"That's because someone betrayed him. Someone on the inside had to have helped you."
"True." Gio sounds pleased, like I've said something clever. "But that doesn't change the fact that he failed. He promised to protect you, and he couldn't even do that. What makes you think he can do it now?"