Salvatore

31. Salvatore

31

SALVATORE

I battle against the need for violence as I dry Ivy’s legs with a towel, wiping the water droplets from her skin, then carry her back to bed.

“Sleep.” I peer down at her, disoriented at how things have changed so fucking quickly. “You’ll be woken soon enough when the doctor arrives.”

She nods and shifts uncomfortably, her arms threaded through the sleeves of my suit jacket, her cheek resting on the lapel draped across her pillow.

I don’t want to leave her. Don’t trust the world to let her out of my sight, even if we’re the only two people in the house—excluding those behind bars. The harsh reality of my to-do list is the only thing that gets me moving toward the door.

“Salvatore?”

The murmur of my name makes me pause, but I don’t look back.

“Am I safe?” she asks.

The festering fury increases, my ability to keep it suppressed a life-or-death battle. “You’ve never been safer, mi reina. No one will hurt you again. I vow it. Now sleep.”

I stalk from the room and trudge along the hall, forcing myself to remain focused.

I assign a guard to the front door, and advise him not to let anyone enter other than the doctor—no staff, no deliveries, no surprises—not unless he and his unwanted visitors plan to eat bullets.

The next task is clean up—a bottle of bleach and a mop from the laundry are all it takes to expunge the evidence of Ivy’s bloodshed from the tile floor. I do it slowly. Meticulously. Like the duty is some sort of meditation ritual, but that fucking rage doesn’t quit. The burnout, either.

Exhaustion has become second nature. The sense of living on borrowed time is now a permanent fixture.

I down a cup of coffee in the kitchen as I focus out the window to the gardens. I picture Adena in the basement, pacing the short length of her cell, wondering when she’ll get her breakfast since the delivery is over an hour late.

Starvation would be a fitting death for her.

The woman who had everything—power, money, prestige—left to die in a dark prison wearing cheap polyester.

If only.

I down the final dregs of my coffee and dump the cup in the sink. Then I do what’s expected of me—find Catarina’s serving tray in the butler’s pantry and cover it with a basic spread of toast, jam, coffee, and juice.

I carry the tray into the hall, my footsteps measured so as not to wake Ivy, then enter the basement in silence.

Blood tracks the stairs and stains the banister. I follow the trail across the basement floor, move the shelves, then enter the PIN code and walk through the passage.

The light is already on, the floor littered with haphazardly scattered knitting needles and a phone surrounded by blood- streaked finger marks, as if my mother tried frantically to reach it through the bars but didn’t quite make the length.

“You’re late.” She shoves to her feet, her eyes pinched and scathing. “I’m supposed to be served breakfast at daybreak. It has to be past seven by now.”

Her body clock is on point. Always has been.

“I’m starving,” she snaps.

I keep the desire to choke her in check and place the tray on the allotted slot in her cell door.

She glares at me as she snatches it. “Toast, Salvatore? What the hell is this?”

I stroll to the corner and claim my seat, dragging it forward to the place I’ve sat on countless visits, my positioning close but always out of reach.

If only Ivy had known better.

“Where’s my cooked meal?” Adena demands. “Catarina prepares me eggs and bacon or pancakes.”

“Catarina is taking the day off. You’ll have to make do with what I’ve prepared.”

“Then prepare something better. I’m not eating this.”

“You’re hangry, Mother, and I’m tired. So eat it or don’t. I don’t care. I haven’t slept. I’ve been too busy cleaning up your mistakes.”

She huffs, not acknowledging the carnage-splattered floor, pretending as if it doesn’t exist while it taunts my periphery.

I’ve learned so much from her. The apathy. The manipulation. But she has to know my blood is boiling.

“We need to talk.” I cross my feet at the ankles and my arms over my chest.

She settles herself on her bed with an annoyed sigh and butters her toast, the stainless-steel knife glinting under the fluorescents. “About?”

“Tell me what happened last night.”

“What’s to tell?” She adds jam to her bread, seeming disinterested, no hint of guilt.

“Why don’t you start with how you met Ivy and obviously didn’t care for her company.”

She takes a dainty bite of toast. “She was somewhat of a distraction from life’s tedium. At least at first.”

“And then?”

She pauses, the crust poised a few inches from her mouth. “Then I discovered things I didn’t like about her.”

I itch to ask. To demand quicker answers. But exposing vested interest won’t work in my favor.

“Why would someone like that be in my brother’s house, Salvatore?”

“Someone like what?”

She smiles. “A Latina whore.”

The slur crawls under my skin, scratching at my loosely bottled rage.

“Her mother’s Greek,” I say blandly.

“And her father?” She takes another bite.

“He’s Gabriel Rodriguez. A rival mine, and the current leader of the Mexican cartel in Baltimore. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Surprise doesn’t enter her features. The same smile remains in place.

“Was it Catarina who told you?” I ask.

“You’ve always known that woman is a font of knowledge for me. For almost two years, you’ve fed her information knowing she will relay it to me somehow. Information used to manipulate me.” Her eyes twinkle with delight. “But I’m always one step ahead, figlio . Even when trapped in a basement with limited contact with the outside world.”

I measure my breathing. Maintain my calm posture. “Is that why you stabbed Ivy? Because of the connection to Rodriguez?”

“No.” She loops a finger through the coffee cup handle and raises it to take a sip.

I hold her gaze with practiced indifference, my composed exterior betraying none of the storm brewing beneath. “Then why?”

“She’s not the woman for you.”

“I never mentioned that she was. In fact, I never mentioned her at all.”

“No.” She takes another sip before lowering the cup to refocus on her toast. “But she was awfully chatty about you. That woman has feelings I don’t appreciate.”

I huff a faint laugh. “So this is territorial.”

“Exactly. I can’t have her digging her claws into my favorite son.”

That title has always left a bitter taste in my mouth. It’s a taunt. A biting one. The favorite implies better treatment. More privileges. A hint of respect.

I’ve received none of those things.

I smirk, playing the game. “Tell me what you didn’t like about her.”

She bites the toast, chews, then washes it down with a gulp of coffee. “The fact she’s with child, for starters.”

My blood turns cold. “Did she tell you that?”

“Do you think I don’t recognize a pregnant woman when she’s standing right in front of me? That whore glows, Salvatore.”

“Bullshit. You didn’t figure it out from a mere fucking glow.”

Adena shrugs. “Catarina may have mentioned the lack of alcohol and caffeine consumption. And Ivy tends to touch her stomach absentmindedly. The signs are blindingly obvious when you have little else to focus on.”

I hadn’t seen them. Hadn’t had a clue.

“Were you aware the child is mine?” I grit out.

“Of course.” She raises the coffee to her mouth, a glimpse of a cunning smile forming right before she places the mug to her lips. “Why do you think I aimed my needles at her stomach?”

It takes all my restraint to remain seated. To not push to my feet and grab her through the bars. I need to feel the cartilage of her throat give way beneath the vise of my hands. To hear her rasped final breaths.

“That child will only ever be another blight on this family, Salvatore. Just like your sister’s abomination. If I didn’t succeed in terminating the pregnancy, you’d be smart to finish what I started.”

“You didn’t succeed,” I snarl. “In fact, Ivy is upstairs resting in one of Lorenzo’s guest rooms while you continue to rot in the basement.”

She grins. “Well, there’s always next time.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for another opportunity.”

“No?” She pouts. “Where’s the fun in that? I’m sure Ivy would come visit me if I asked. I’d just tug on those pathetic heartstrings of hers and beg forgiveness. She’s delusional enough to fall victim a second time.”

“I thought you wanted freedom.”

“I do.” She throws back the remainder of her coffee.

“And you still expect me to facilitate it after this?”

“Oh, no, figlio . I never expected it in the first place. But you work so hard to pretend you’re going to that I feel obliged to play along. Isn’t that part of the game—the one where you pussyfoot around, trying to get your hands on my money, while I act as if there’s any chance I’ll sive it to you?”

“Sive it to me?” I raise a brow.

She places her cup down, the crockery clattering against the saucer. “Don’t worry. You will be compenshated accorsingly if you get around to fashibit—” She pauses. Frowns. “Fashibitating. Fashibi—” Her frown deepens, and she shakes her head. “I’ll pay you if you help me escape… just as long as you’re not aligned with that Latina wh?—”

“Don’t call her that again,” I sneer. “This will get a lot harder if you do.”

“You need a goos, strong, Italian woman.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, her tone growing tired. “And with the money I have hidden, you could also have everysing you ever dreamed of. You would no longer have to apshease your siblings or live in your uncle’s shadow. You could disappear with me. We could start over.”

“Is that how you see this playing out?”

Her hand flops to her side, her gaze sightless as she stares at the tray before her, the silence stretching.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

She blinks, dazed, confused. “I…” Her attention turns to me, her expression deadpan. “I feel… strange.”

I pause a moment to enjoy her bewilderment, taking in the growing slump of her posture, the confused flutter of her lashes. “This situation has definitely encouraged strange feelings. I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but when I found Ivy bloodied and terrified, I got this unholy ache in my chest. I would’ve moved heaven and Earth to help her.” I push to my feet—cold, callous, detached—just the way my mother made me. “Turns out I’ll do the same to avenge her.”

Adena mimics my movement, but her rush to her feet is addled and shaky. “Did you do something to my food?”

“Let’s call it a course correction.” I casually swipe my palms down the front of my shirt, leveling out the wrinkles. “One that’s been a long time coming.”

Her face bleaches of color. “Tell me what you did . ” She stumbles to the bars, snatching at them with aged hands. “ Tell me .”

“It’s nothing you don’t deserve.” It’s my turn to smile, the curve of lips just as vindictive as hers had been.

“Does Lorenzo know about this?” she demands. “Let me talk to my brother.”

“Don’t worry. The symptoms won’t last long. This is merely a lesson to teach you not to touch what’s mine.”

“Lorenzo will punish you for this. He’ll kill you.”

“Or he’ll finally acknowledge there’s nothing to stop me taking over.”

She retreats, stumbling back to her bed. “Don’t do this.”

“You’re looking at the situation from the wrong perspective.” I scoop Ivy’s cell off the floor and place my chair back in the corner. “You were once so proud of the darkness you nurtured in me. How you destroyed my humanity and replaced it with brutality.” I start for the passage, meeting her gaze over my shoulder. “You should feel accomplished in knowing those lessons are what guided me to my actions today.”

“ Don’t shoe dis, ” she begs, slumping onto the flimsy mattress.

“I leave this room devoid of any emotional attachment to you. There’s no remorse or sadness.” Apprehension and possession claw the inside of my chest, but those feelings aren’t for her. They attack me with ruthless force for a woman I barely know. “You’ll never see me again, Adena.”

She stretches across her tiny mattress, weaving an arm between the bars, her fingers outstretched. “Please. Shalvatore. I’ll tell you where the money is.”

I pause, imagining the future I could’ve had with those finances. The generational wealth instead of the paltry millions sitting in my bank account.

For almost two years I’ve chased that information. Have strategized. Failed. Then strategized some more. And it isn’t until now, when I’m certain her fear is the key to unlocking my inheritance, that the wealth means nothing to me.

“Keep my money.” I continue into the passage. “I don’t fucking need it.”