6. Cami
— · —
Cami
The bed smelled like cedar and smoke and warm skin. None of it mine.
My eyes opened.
White ceiling. Crown molding. A chandelier that probably cost more than my yearly salary hanging overhead. Silk sheets pooled around my waist, softer than anything I’d ever slept on.
This was not my bed.
This was not my room.
This was not my life.
The memories came flooding back. The wedding. The wrong name. The photos on the screen. Running through the church. The parking garage. Greta’s cold smile. The trunk of the car. Waking up on concrete surrounded by armed men.
Salvatore.
Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.
What the fuck had I done?
I sat up too fast. The room spun. My hands fisted in the silk sheets and I forced myself to breathe, to think, to process.
I’d made a deal with a mafia boss.
An actual, literal mafia boss. No one had used the word, no one had confirmed it out loud, but come on. The warehouse. The armed guards. The way his men snapped to attention when he walked in. The casual mention of gambling debts and interest rates that would make a loan shark blush.
Salvatore was mafia. Had to be. And I’d offered to help him destroy my ex-fiancé in exchange for... what? Revenge? Satisfaction? The chance to watch Logan suffer the way I was suffering?
What the fuck was wrong with me?
The ruined wedding dress was gone. I looked around the room and couldn’t find it anywhere. Someone had taken it while I slept, which meant someone had been in this room, watching me sleep, close enough to take the clothes off the floor without waking me.
That should have terrified me.
Somehow it didn’t.
A pile of clothes sat on the other side of the bed. Folded neatly. Designer labels I recognized from magazines I couldn’t afford to buy. I reached for the first item and checked the tag.
My exact size.
How the hell did he know my size?
I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t want to think about any of this. But the alternative was sitting naked in a stranger’s bed in a mafia compound, so I got dressed.
The clothes fit perfectly. Dark jeans that hugged my hips. A cream-colored cashmere sweater that felt impossibly soft against my skin. Even the underwear was right, plain black cotton, nothing fancy, exactly what I would have chosen for myself.
That was somehow more unsettling than anything else.
The bedroom opened onto a hallway. Marble floors. Artwork on the walls that looked original, not prints. Doors on either side, all of them closed. At the end of the hall, a staircase curved down toward what sounded like voices.
I followed the sound.
The house was massive. Not a house, really. A mansion. A compound. Room after room of expensive furniture and tasteful decor and the understated luxury that screamed old money. Or dirty money. Probably both.
I found Salvatore in what had to be a study. Dark wood paneling. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A desk the size of my old apartment’s kitchen. The door was open, like he’d been expecting me.
He didn’t greet me.
Those gray eyes lifted from whatever document he’d been reading. Swept over me once, head to toe, assessing. Then he nodded toward the chair across from his desk.
“Close the door.”
I closed it. Sat down. Tried to look like my heart wasn’t hammering against my ribs.
The silence stretched between us. He set down his pen. Leaned back in his chair. Studied me like I was a problem he was still figuring out how to solve.
“We need to discuss how this is going to work.”
“Okay.” My voice came out steadier than I expected. “I’m listening.”
“For this to be effective, everyone needs to believe you’re mine.” He said it like he was discussing the weather. Like claiming ownership of another human being was a perfectly normal Tuesday morning topic. “My men. My enemies. The Caldwells. All of them.”
“Yours.” I repeated the word carefully. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Not a girlfriend.” His lip curled slightly, like the word tasted bad.
“Something more. Something that makes you untouchable. If people think you belong to me, they won’t touch you.
They won’t question your presence. They won’t wonder why the runaway Caldwell bride is suddenly living in my compound. ”
Runaway Caldwell bride. The words hit harder than they should have.
“What do you mean, runaway?”
Salvatore’s expression didn’t change. “Greta Caldwell has already put the story out. The bride fled in shame. Vanished. Too humiliated by her public breakdown to show her face. No one is looking for you.”
The breath left my lungs. “She said... she told people I ran?”
“She controlled the narrative before you could. Smart, for a woman who thought she could pay off a two-million-dollar debt with a human being.” Something dark flickered in his eyes. “Your phone was destroyed. I had it replaced last night.”
“You replaced my phone?”
“New number. New device. No connection to your old life.” He slid a sleek black phone across the desk toward me. “Your family won’t be able to contact you. Neither will Logan. As far as the world is concerned, you’ve disappeared.”
I stared at the phone. At this man who had erased my entire existence overnight without asking my permission.
“You can’t just...”
“I can.” His voice was flat. Final. “And I did. You want revenge? This is how we get it. You come back from the dead, stronger and more powerful than before, on my arm. The woman they threw away, now untouchable. Now dangerous. The hit has to hit, Camellia. And for that, you need to be a ghost first.”
Camellia. Not Cami. The full name sounded different in his voice. Formal. Almost intimate.
“So what’s the plan?” I forced myself to focus. To push past the fear and the confusion and the lingering grief that kept trying to claw its way up my throat. “How exactly do we destroy him?”
“First, we establish your presence here. Make sure everyone knows you’re under my protection.” He stood, came around the desk, gestured toward the door. “Come. I’ll show you the compound.”
The compound was a fortress dressed as luxury.
Armed guards at every gate. Security cameras on every corner. Men with guns and hard eyes stationed at doors and windows and anywhere else an intruder might try to enter.
But between the security, the place was beautiful. Manicured gardens. A pool that sparkled in the morning sun. A kitchen bigger than my old apartment with a chef who nodded at me like my presence was completely normal.
Salvatore walked me through it all, explaining nothing, introducing everyone.
“This is Pedro.” A stocky man with a shaved head and tattoos crawling up his neck, the oldest of them by a decade and broad enough to blot out the doorway behind him. “He handles security.”
Pedro grinned at me, wide and warm in a way that seemed out of place in a house full of armed guards. “So you’re the one who made the boss smile last night. Didn’t think that was possible.”
“Shut up, Pedro.” But there was no heat in Salvatore’s voice.
“I’m serious.” Pedro turned to me, still grinning. “I’ve worked for this man for six years. Never seen him smile. You show up and suddenly he’s got teeth. It’s unsettling.”
A surprised laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “I’ll try to be less amusing.”
“Don’t you dare. This is the most entertainment we’ve had in months.”
“This is Julian.” Salvatore’s voice cut in, steering me toward the next man. Taller, leaner, with wire-rimmed glasses and the still, watchful calm of a man who’d already counted every exit and every person in the room twice. “He handles the finances. And most of the thinking.”
“Ironic,” Julian said, shaking my hand. His grip was firm but not aggressive, his voice dust-dry. “Given that you’re here because of finances.”
“Story of my life, apparently.”
“And this is Hendry.” The youngest of the three, maybe mid-twenties, with a boyish face that didn’t match the gun on his hip and a dog-eared paperback stuffed in his back pocket. “He handles whatever needs handling.”
“That’s ominous,” I said before I could stop myself.
Hendry laughed, a bright genuine sound that echoed off the marble floors. He had the eager, open energy of a golden retriever who’d been told he was a guard dog and decided to believe it. “I like her, boss. Can we keep her?”
“She’s not a stray dog, Hendry.”
“I don’t know.” Pedro crossed his arms, still grinning. “She’s got that lost puppy energy. Big sad eyes. Probably hasn’t eaten in days.”
“I ate yesterday,” I protested. “I think. Actually, I’m not sure. What day is it?”
“See?” Pedro gestured at me like I’d just proved his point. “Lost puppy. We should feed her.”
“I’ll have the chef make something,” Hendry offered. “What do you like? We’ve got a full kitchen. Anything you want.”
“I...” The kindness caught me off guard. These were supposed to be hardened criminals, mafia soldiers, dangerous men with guns and blood on their hands. They weren’t supposed to be offering to make me breakfast like I was a houseguest who’d arrived too early.
A small laugh bubbled up my throat. Then another. Before I knew it, I was actually chuckling, the absurdity of the situation breaking through all my defenses.
“I can’t believe this is my life,” I managed between laughs. “Three days ago I was picking out napkin colors for my wedding reception. Now I’m standing in a mafia compound being offered breakfast by a guy named Hendry who handles whatever needs handling.”
Pedro snorted. “Napkin colors. Rich people problems.”
“They were sage green. In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t, but now I am. Why sage green?”
“Because Logan’s mother said blush pink was overdone and I was too tired to argue.”
“See, that’s your first mistake.” Hendry shook his head solemnly. “Never let the mother-in-law pick the napkins. That’s how they establish dominance.”
I laughed again, harder this time. “I’ll remember that for my next wedding.”
“Next wedding should have black napkins,” Pedro suggested. “Very dramatic. Sets a tone.”
“The tone being what, exactly?”