Chapter 24
Nicole
Raffaele grips the steering wheel in one hand. The other is glued to his phone, his eyes flicking between the screen, the road, and me, always scheming, always watching.
"That fucking scumbag," he blurts out in Italian, his voice sharp with frustration. I don't flinch, keeping my gaze on the world passing outside the passenger window, ignoring him as I have for days now.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, his tone softer now, almost coaxing.
I don't answer.
He glances at me, irritation flashing in his eyes. "You could at least try to make an effort, Nicole," he snaps. "I know you're adjusting, but I haven't asked anything from you except to smile and eat the nice dinners I buy. Spend the money I make. That's not hard, is it?"
I finally turn to him, my voice flat. "Keep it all. I just want to talk to Gio."
He sneers, clearly annoyed. "I'm working on that around the clock, but you need to hold up your end. If we're going to work, you need to start putting in some effort to be happy."
A bitter chuckle spews out as I shake my head. "I never agreed to come back and be with you, Raffaele. I agreed to come back and put up with you because you threatened everyone I care about. God knows why I'm still here." I chuckle again, this time more sarcastically. "We're off to a perfect start, aren’t we? If that’s what you want." I let out a dry laugh. "God, you really are delusional, aren’t you?"
His jaw tightens. He grips the wheel harder, knuckles whitening. "You think this is a joke?" His voice is low and dangerous now. "You laugh because you don't understand how important I am yet. You're still thinking about your billionaire."
I stare out the window, clenching my fists. "I know how important you think you are," I reply, my tone icy. "Flashing stacks of money like it's supposed to impress me. Driving me around in your expensive car, taking me to fancy dinners—all paid for in blood money. And it all comes from you, the kind of cold bastard who threatens a child." I glance at him, my disgust on full display.
He pulls the car to the side of the road abruptly, the tires screeching against the asphalt. In one swift motion, he reaches over and grabs my face roughly, his fingers digging into my chin, forcing me to face him. His eyes are wild with anger, his breath hot on my skin. For a moment, I can see him struggling, words caught in his throat, though I know what he really wants to do. His rage simmers just beneath the surface, ready to explode.
That old feeling crashes over me. It all flashes back: the sound of his voice when he screamed at me, the terror I felt knowing when the first blow was coming. I remember the shame of lying on the floor, looking up at him, praying he wouldn't hit me again.
But not anymore.
I hold his gaze, defiance burning in my chest. "What? If you're going to hit me, do it. Then go find my brother." My voice is steady, though my heart is pounding.
I glance down, noticing his free hand drifting toward the pistol at his side. My pulse quickens, but I don't look away. He sees that I've noticed, and for a moment, time seems to stretch between us. Then, just as quickly, he lets go of my face, his hand falling away from the gun. He puts both hands back on the steering wheel, breathing hard.
"Do not press me, Nicole," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "It is in your best interest, and everyone else's, that you follow my every word. My men are looking for your brother, but it wouldn't take much for them to make sure the day they find him is his last."
The weight of his threat hangs in the air like a thick cloud, suffocating. My throat tightens, but I refuse to let the tears fall. I won't give him the satisfaction.
"You don't want to eat?" he snaps, starting the car again and pulling back into traffic. "Fine. We go home, and you can starve." His voice is colder now, but I can hear the satisfaction in it. He thrives on control, on knowing he's broken me down just a little more, the helplessness, the fear, the constant stress of being near him. Raffaele, who pretends he's changed, who showers me with gifts I don't want, who takes me to dinners I can't stomach, is still the same monster he's always been. His compliments on my body, the way he touches me without permission—it all makes me sick. It's as if I'm trapped in a continuous loop of fear and disgust. His rage is still there, lurking, waiting to lash out.
I stare out the window, fighting the lump in my throat, every part of me aching. I won't cry. I can't. Not in front of him.
Shane and Jaime occupy my every thought, every moment of every day. When I'm alone, without the constant distraction of my hate for Raffaele and his men, the ache of missing them is unbearable. I wonder what they're doing right now. Is Shane still making his coffee in that slow way that always annoyed me? Has Jaime found something new to focus his endless energy on, something to fill the space I left behind? Part of me hopes, for their sake, that they've moved on, that they're happy.
But another part of me, one that I can't help, selfishly wishes they haven't forgotten me. I want them to remember. I want them to wonder where I've gone, what's happened to me. I want them to miss me, to want me back. It's a cruel thought, but it's all I have left now—just the memory of what we had.
Before I came to meet Raffaele, I took steps to protect myself. I stored all my things away and locked my credit cards and valuables where he couldn't reach them. I was terrified he'd take them, use them to manipulate me in ways I couldn't escape. But a part of me also hopes, just in case… if I disappear for good, someone—maybe Shane, maybe someone else—will find it all. They'll see the pieces of my life that I left behind, and I hope they'll get some closure.
If nothing else, I want them to know it wasn't their fault. Whatever happens now, it's because of choices I made, and not because they didn't care enough.
The tension between Raffaele and his men is growing. I can feel it in the air, as if the entire house is straining under his frustration. Whatever leads he once had on Giovanni have either dried up or were never real in the first place. Each time he gives me some empty tip— Giovanni was seen here, someone spotted him there —it feels like a breadcrumb tossed carelessly in my direction, not enough to satisfy, just enough to keep me on the hook. Before, he'd at least try to tempt me back with photographs or proof, but now that he has me, there's no need. His leash is short, and I'm starting to suffocate under its grip.
I no longer trust that he even knows where my brother is. He must know something—he let me talk to Giovanni once before I was dragged back into this—but whatever it is, he's hiding it, or worse, using it as leverage. I grow tired of his games.
That night, I make my decision.
After midnight, the house settles into a deep silence, the kind of stillness that promises no interruptions. No one comes to check on me after that hour; they all assume I'm too cowed to do anything but sit and wait. I head to the bathroom, retrieving the hairdryer I stashed there earlier. I crack open the casing, and inside, nestled among the wires, is the tiny black burner phone I planted. It's my lifeline, my only connection to the outside world.
I snap the hairdryer shut, slide the phone into my pocket, and move quickly. My plan has been weeks in the making. I've tested the sounds and memorized the movements—out the second-floor window, up the slanted roof to a small, flat surface near an attic window. It's a precarious climb, but I've done it before. No one will hear me up there.
I climb, careful not to make a sound, the cold night air biting at my skin as I reach the roof. This is my one shot to make contact. I call Francesca first, but the line rings out. No answer. I expected that. My fingers tremble as I dial Lonzo next, my heart pounding in the quiet. The phone remains silent for several long minutes, and I'm just about to give up when it lights up in my hand.
But the voice on the other end isn't Lonzo. It's an older woman.
"You have to stop calling," she says flatly, her tone sharp and final. There's no pretense of politeness, just an edge of warning.
I swallow hard, my voice barely a whisper. "Who do you work for?"
"It doesn't matter," she snaps. "You're with him now. You're dead to the world."
"I'm not with him," I protest, desperation slipping into my voice. "I just need to—" The line goes dead before I can finish.
I just sit there for a moment, staring at the darkened screen. My heart races in confusion. Since when does anyone fear Raffaele? He's always been a low-level thug, barking louder than he bites. But this… either he's grown far more dangerous than I ever realized, or he's done something so terrible that people have cut ties with him completely.
Neither option bodes well for me.
I climb back down to my room, my mind racing, every ounce of hope I'd been clinging to slipping away like sand through my fingers. I need to find Giovanni. I need to leave this place before it consumes me. Raffaele is more dangerous than I thought, and I can't afford to underestimate him anymore.
Over the course of a few days, I have yet to hear anything concrete about Giovanni; no real leads, no sightings. The snippets I catch are always vague—a rumor here, a possible sighting there. Giovanni feels more like a ghost than a real person, at this point. But what I do find out terrifies me. Raffaele is planning to overthrow Pietro, the head of the Avvoltoi. If he makes that move, it'll put targets on all of us—me included. My protection would be gone, and Raffaele would completely control me. It's becoming clear why he brought me back. He doesn't care about helping me find Giovanni; he wants power, and I'm just another pawn in his game.
This was a mistake. He'll never help me willingly. I need to start planning my escape.
"Nicole." His voice pulls me from sleep, deep and slurred, the smell of alcohol heavy in the air. I blink into the darkness, my heart pounding as I see Raffaele standing over me, a shadow darker than the room itself.
"What?" I say, my voice sharp. "What do you think you're doing, Raffaele?"
He sways slightly, his breath reeking of whiskey. "What you made me," he slurs. "I tried to be nice. I tried to bring you to my side. Let you witness my rise as my woman, something you should be proud of." He pauses. His words are heavy and full of self-pity. "But even now, your mind is still with him. With these Americans. Not even our blood." His words churn something dark inside me, but I keep my face impassive.
"You embarrass me in front of my men," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "They think I'm weak because of you. That I won't do what needs to be done."
Fear prickles at my skin, but I refuse to let him see it. I clench my fists under the sheets, my eyes darting toward the lamp on the bedside table. It's close. Not much of a weapon, but it'll have to do.
"What is it, Raffaele? What needs to be done?" I ask, forcing the words out in an even tone, though my body tenses, ready to act.
"Your billionaire. We need him," he spits.
My heart skips a beat, my mind racing. "What have you done?" I demand, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Nothing… yet," he says, the venom in his tone unmistakable.
"What do you need Shane for?" My stomach twists, dread filling every inch of me.
"My time to rise has come, and Shane will be my tool. I want him in—his company, his resources. I need him to cooperate."
It clicks in my head, the pieces coming together. "You want to use him to overtake Le Ombre," I say, the realization making me sick.
He narrows his eyes. "What do you know about Obsidian?"
"I know enough," I say with a sigh. "Your men haven't exactly been discreet. Obsidian holds power in America, and you think partnering with Shane will give you leverage with them. You think bringing in American money will help you seize control of the Avvoltoi."
Raffaele glares at me, his eyes wild with confusion and anger. "How do you know..."
"Because you're not good at this, Raffaele," I snap. "Neither are your men. And if you think I'm going to help you drag Shane into this, you're delusional."
Raffaele's expression darkens, but his voice stays cold. "This I expected," he says with unnerving calm. He whistles sharply, and two of his men burst into the room.
I grab the lamp, smashing it over one of their heads as he lunges toward me. The glass shatters, sending shards flying across the bed and floor. He stumbles back, clutching his bleeding forehead, but the second man grabs me by the neck, yanking me from the bed. I kick and thrash, landing a sharp punch across Raffaele's face, but it's no use. They overpower me, dragging me toward the door.
I make them fight for every step, knocking over anything I can reach, screaming insults, kicking at their legs. My body slams into the walls as they haul me down a narrow staircase, my heart racing with panic. They drag me toward an open door—beyond it, a set of stairs that leads down into a dark cellar.
I scratch one of them across the face, drawing blood. He snarls and punches me hard in the ribs, and everything goes black.
When I wake, the world is cold and silent. I'm alone, chained to a pole in an empty, dimly lit room.