Chapter 43A Sinister Truth and a Lover’s Vow #2
‘‘And then you escaped. And when you dismantled that whole prison, taking down every last guard in a single night, I knew. I had a feeling that I knew exactly who you were. It was more than a hunch, it was the feeling that someone from my world was involved.’’
A low, almost imperceptible chuckle slips from him as he steps closer, his voice dropping.
“I always preferred to keep business less personal than you. Remember when you met with one of the Five Families in New York; the Lucchese family? The front man, Tommy? He’s a distant relative of mine.
He’s been watching you ever since you forged that alliance with his branch of the New York Mafia.
Every move you made, he reported back to me.
That’s when I knew for certain, it was you.
You were Aslanov, the ghost of the Bratva. The legend.’’
He claps his hands together, the sound echoing through the room, his eyes gleaming with a mix of admiration and amusement.
‘‘And for the grand finale,’’ he says, his voice dripping with mocking satisfaction, ‘‘you picked a very unlucky woman to engage with. You see, my name isn’t fucking Nick.’’
He leans in slightly, letting the weight of his words hang in the air like smoke, as if savoring the moment.
‘‘My name is Antonio Lorenzo ,’’ he says, the words dripping with finality. He looks me over, savoring the moment. Then, he adds, almost as an afterthought, ‘ ‘Brown .’’
He pauses, eyes sharp and calculating as he waits. “I rarely use my last name. I prefer to be known simply as ‘Lorenzo.’ Still… does it ring a bell?”
The shock hits me like a physical blow. For a moment, I can’t process his words. My mind stumbles, scrambling to make sense of the impossible revelation. I look at him, but it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I’m left gaping like an idiot, unable to form a coherent thought. It’s too much, too sudden. He watches me with a satisfied smirk, but when I finally manage to stutter out, ‘‘What the fuck does that even mean? Brown... Isabella...’’
Before I can finish, he cuts me off, his voice sharp and commanding. ‘‘Isabella is my niece . She is Gambino blood. Her father, my brother, was the previous head of the family.’’
The words slam into me. Gambino blood. It makes sense now, the lineage, the arrogance, the power. He’s not just a high-ranked criminal, he’s a blood heir to one of the oldest, most ruthless families in the world.
He continues, his voice tinged with a bitter edge, a sort of dead weight to the past that he clearly carries with him.
‘‘When Isabella was born, her mother died in childbirth... complications... a sudden infection that no one saw coming. My brother, Salvatore, was left alone to raise her. He was a fool—he loved too hard, too much.’’
My pulse skips a beat, her biological mother is dead.
‘‘My brother Salvatore died a tragic death when Isabella was just a few months old. A shooting at the family compound. You know how it is. Rivalries. Business. A moment’s mistake. I inherited the empire, took it all for myself. And Isabella? I gave her up. Her mother had a loyal childhood friend, she was willing to take Isabella in. I didn’t care for her like her father did. ’’
There’s a strange, almost empty satisfaction in his tone, as if he’s trying to convince himself, rather than me, that his actions were justified.
‘‘She was a burden to me. An heir I didn’t need,’’ he finishes with a finality that echoes in the room, as if he’s settled the matter once and for all.
He watches me, his eyes glinting with the satisfaction of someone who has just delivered a crushing blow, before continuing, his voice lower now, laced with a cold sense of reminiscence.
‘‘The first day she walked through that prison door, I had to look twice. I didn’t quite recognize her at first, but that fierce red hair... and that stubborn mouth,’’ he says, his lips twisting into a humorless grin.
‘‘It had so much of her father in it. Salvatore was known for his temper, his drive, and that mouth of his. Always running off at the mouth, never knowing when to shut up. She had that same fire. I knew then. I had to be sure, but I knew.’’
He pauses for a moment, twisting one of his rings.
‘‘I got a hold of her file. And there it was; her name. Isabella Marie Brown. A one in a million coincidence,’’ he scoffs, shaking his head as if it’s all just some twisted, ironic joke.
‘‘I never thought I’d see the day where she would end up right under my nose. I guess fate has a funny way of making things come full circle.’’
The words hit me like a freight train, each syllable cracking through my skull, sinking into my chest like daggers.
I can feel the heat in my face rise as my blood begins to boil.
His tone, his words, the way he speaks about Isabella, it all drives something primal in me, something raw and unforgiving.
His eyes gleam with satisfaction as he watches me struggle with the weight of his revelation. He doesn’t see it coming. He doesn’t understand what he’s just unleashed.
I tug violently at the chains around my wrists, the metal digging into my skin as if it’s mocking me, reminding me of how fucking helpless I am. But the rage that floods through me, the fury that’s been building up for years, is something I can’t control.
‘‘You—’’ My voice is a low, guttural growl as I struggle to keep myself from lashing out. ‘‘Don’t you dare talk about her like that, you piece of shit.’’ My teeth grind together, and I pull harder at the chains, my entire body tense with the need to break free, to rip him apart.
‘‘She looks like her father—’’ he pauses, watching me closely, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight. ‘‘A fool for love. Loving too easily, too hard. No matter the coasts, no matter the hurt.’’
Enough .
The thought rips through my mind like lightning.
In an instant, every ounce of restraint I had left snaps.
I pull with every last bit of strength I have, my body surging forward.
The pain in my wrists is unbearable, but I don’t care.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except getting free, except making him pay for every word, every insult, every second of this.
I pull again, this time harder, and there’s a sickening crack as my wrist dislocates.
The pain shoots up my arm like fire, but I don’t stop.
I can feel the metal digging into my flesh, the jagged edges biting into my skin as I force my arm free.
I scream through the pain, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps, but I can already feel the chain loosening.
Then with a brutal jerk, I rip my arm free from the cuff. The metal grinds against my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fury inside me, the savage need to break free from this cage and destroy everything in my path.
I lash out, my remaining arm swinging, fist aimed at his chest. It connects, but it’s weak, barely enough to rattle him.
I can feel it in my bones, the failure, the weakness.
It’s frustrating. Pathetic. I swing again.
This time, it’s harder. He stumbles back, a small victory. It’s not much, but it’s something.
I tug at the remaining chain, desperately. But I can feel my body betraying me. The hunger for destruction, the primal instinct to make him suffer, burns in my gut, but my strength is fading.
The door crashes open.
A blur of masked figures floods the room. They move with purpose, with certainty. Too many of them. They swarm in, grabbing my wrists, shackling them again, and pulling them upward with brutal force.
My body lurches, my dislocated wrist screaming in pain.
I barely have time to react before one of them slams a knee into my stomach, and the air rushes out of my lungs.
I stagger, my legs buckling. I can’t breathe.
I can barely see straight. My vision flickers, and every inch of me is a hot mess of bruises and exhaustion.
Another man comes from behind, the sharp crack of his baton against my ribs. I gasp, my chest tightening, the breath stolen from me again. I try to push back, but they’re too fast, too strong. One of them wraps an arm around my neck, choking me, and I feel my body lose all sense of control.
They don’t give me a moment to recover. Another hit to the back of my head, and the world spins.
They slam me back against the wall, my wrists securely bound again, the chains biting into my skin. My body refuses to stay upright, and I sag, hanging from the restraints. Blood drips down my side, a steady stream of crimson, but it’s nothing compared to the rage still burning inside me.
‘‘You’ll die as you lived; alone.’’
Lorenzo scoffs, his voice laced with mockery. “Everything, including your life, wasted for an insignificant woman.”
I lift my head, the weight of blood and fury pressing against my skull. My breath is ragged, but my voice, when it comes, is hoarse and unyielding, a vow carved from the darkest depths of my soul.
‘‘Ona — pervaya i edinstvennaya, kogo ya lyubil. Ona — moya. I yesli mne suzhdeno umeret’, to tol’ko s yeyó imenem na gubakh.’’
She is the first and only woman I have ever truly loved. She is mine. And if I am to die, it will be with her name on my lips.