4. Victoria Galli
Chapter 4
Victoria Galli
The mansion is quiet after the chaos of the hospital. And the office…
I blush, thinking about Elio—his hands on me, his commands, his raw intensity. The way he is. It all plays on repeat in my mind.
The bedside lamp casts long shadows across the ceiling. I lie in bed, staring at the wallpaper, my mind racing, refusing to shut down.
And then there was Gio’s message: The car belongs to a company called the Broad Corporation.
It can’t be a coincidence. I know it’s not.
First, the B.C. in the office files. Then Jackson’s words about a mysterious note with B.C. scrambled under some names and addresses. And now, a car following us—registered to the same company.
I swallow hard and turn.
It’s been a long day. A hard one. The baby. Elio’s mother. B.C.
I can hear Elio moving around next door, his voice is a low murmur. He’s on the phone, checking in with Gio, making sure Celeste is safe I’m guessing. I can picture him, his brow furrowed, the tension in his shoulders, but also that soft look in his eyes.
I like seeing him like that, giving a damn about someone other than me.
Not that I’m the only one he cares about, but... it’s different now.
It’s like seeing a new side of him, a softer one. It reminds me that he’s not just the hard shell the world sees…
Sometimes, he reminds me of my father.
They were close, I know that.
A pang of pain shoots through me at the thought of my father. One minute, he was here, the next...gone. Like he never was.
I can still feel his presence in this mansion, in Elio’s and my home, where he spent most of his time. He’s in the furniture, in the cigar smell that still lingers—a reminder of those nights he’d have a drink with Don De Luca before heading home to my mom and me.
My mother. Susan Galli.
My brain flips to her without asking permission. The woman who gave birth to me, the woman I’ve been avoiding like the plague for the last year.
We haven’t talked, except for the occasional text or a quick call that always ends badly.
Tthe thought of seeing her and having to speak to her makes me want to run for the hills.
It’s like a fist clenching around my lungs.
The way she handled my father’s death… it hurt. She ignored me for weeks, then reached out for a coffee date, offering nothing but silence when I brought up his name. She was barely involved in the funeral arrangements.
Maybe she doesn’t reach out—because she knows I blame her for not being there for me, or for not handling things will when the world went to shit. Or maybe she doesn’t care.
Perhaps she’s angry with me, or maybe it’s because I remind her of him. Maybe every time she looks at me, she sees my father, his face, his ways, his energy, and she can’t stand it.
Or maybe she’s scared of how much I am like her, that maybe I am just a mirror, reflecting back her own coldness and fears.
I rub my thumb over the tattoo on my wrist, reminding me who I am. I am my father’s daughter.
I am a Galli. And Gallis don’t give up, don’t back down.
I reach for my phone, the cool glass against my palm.
Should I do it?
My hand hovers over the screen, scrolling through the contacts until I stop on one:
Mama.
My fingers tremble as I open our message thread. The last text is from six months ago.
Should I send something? I pull my hand back and put it down again. What do I have to lose? My pulse quickens as I type out a message and press the green send button.
‘Goodnight...’
Small, I know. Like a tiny bridge, still I’m shaking.
I set the phone to silent and close my eyes, but my mind is still buzzing, like a broken record stuck on repeat. Everything feels like too much as always.
And then I crash into a restless, uneasy sleep.
* * *
Morning light filters through the curtains, casting the room in gold. Elio is already gone—he told me last night he had to leave early—but his side of the bed is still warm. He must have left not long ago.
I pull the silk blanket around me, breathing in his scent. Resting my head on the pillow, I take a deep breath before pushing myself up on one elbow. The sun is bright outside. It’s a beautiful day, but I don’t feel it in my soul just yet.
I grab my phone, the weight of last night’s recklessness hitting me like a punch to the gut. Why did I text her? What the hell was I thinking?
Stupid. So stupid.
It doesn’t matter—she won’t answer anyway.
As I swipe through my notifications, a text from my mother catches my eye. Damn it.
I hesitate for a moment, then open it.
‘Do you have time to meet? If you’re up for it…’
A lump rises in my throat, and I fight the urge to throw my phone across the room.
I want to pretend I never saw it, to hide in the silence between us.
Her message blurs as I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
I’m not ready. Not yet. I need more time. Finally, I start typing—slow, deliberate.
‘Things are hectic right now with the new office… swamped with work.’
I hit send, knowing it’s a weak excuse. She knows it, too. But we both pretend. It’s easier that way.
I stare at the screen. The silence stretches, but then my phone buzzes again.
What does she want?
I open the message, but it’s not my mother, it’s Elio.
‘I’ll see you later, love. Thanks for last night, it was—intense.’
Heat rises to my cheeks as I read his message, a small smile tugging at my lips. He always does this to me—a mix of butterflies and fire.
Last night, I glimpsed a new side of his darkness—raw, real, commanding. It stirs something deep inside me, a pull between pushing him away and holding him so tight he can never leave.
The thought of being that vulnerable, that open, that submissive—it’s both terrifying and thrilling.
If I’m being honest? I kind of loved it.
Shit. I’m in trouble.
I toss back the covers, the smooth silk sliding off my skin. Stretching, I feel the satisfying ache in my muscles—a lingering reminder of the night before. A soft yawn escapes, but my mind is already racing, sorting through the long list of things that need to be done.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet meet the cold marble floor. The icy touch sends a shiver up my spine. I push myself to my feet and head to the bathroom.
The shower is warm, water cascading down my skin. I linger under the spray, letting it soothe my muscles, the heat easing the tension in my neck and shoulders.
Pure bliss.
And I don’t want to leave.
After drying off, I get dressed and head to the kitchen. The rich scent of coffee fills the air—Mrs. Gambini’s early handiwork, no doubt. I smile at the thought of her, always one step ahead, taking care of the little things around the mansion. Despite everything she’s lost—her daughter, Don—she still manages to hold this house together. And God knows we need it.
Pulling out my phone, I type a quick message to Gio.
‘All good with Maria and Celeste?’
As I wait for a response, the unmistakable scent of burnt toast fills the air. I chuckle to myself. That’ll be Elio—he can barely make a sandwich without setting something on fire.
My phone buzzes. Gio’s reply:
‘Celeste is sleeping soundly. Everything’s good. Everyone is safe.’
My heart unclenches just a little.
‘Great,’ I text back. ‘Thank you.’
With that settled, I grab a cup of coffee.
Outside, birds chirp, their song lingering as I take a sip. I stare out the window, feeling the familiar pull of a dream I’ve carried for years—to be a private investigator. It’s something I’ve wanted ever since I could remember. I used to think it was a pipe dream, but now, the possibility feels closer, real even.
If I asked, Elio would make it happen for me in an instant. He’d make sure I had everything I needed—cases, resources, all of it. But that’s not what I want. I want to earn it. I want to be good enough to build something from the ground up, something I can call my own.
I could start slowly. Take small steps now, build my skills, take on cases. Maybe I’ll finally renovate that office downtown—the one Elio’s been paying the rent for, even though he insists it’s no trouble. He always says it’s nothing. But I hate how easy he makes it for me, how he takes care of things when I’m too caught up.
My money disappeared last year when I was too deep in helping him and Tuvio. ‘Consider it a salary for all your work,’ Elio had said, and I’d accepted, just like that. But now... it doesn’t feel right.
It gnaws at me, like a woodpecker tapping at my peace. I can’t help but feel like I’ve let him do too much.
Go for your dream. Make it happen.
My father’s voice rings in my mind, as if he’s standing right beside me, urging me on. I shake my head and push the thought aside. I need to focus. But it’s hard to ignore the pressure of his words. I tuck them away, not too far—just enough to breathe.
I take a deep breath, the lukewarm coffee halfway to my lips.
Then Jackson’s call yanks me back into the present.
"V-Vicks!"
His voice is a mess of panic and slurred words – that tells me he’s been drinking again. He’s like a broken clock, stuck on the same agonizing hour.
“I—”
“Hey, listen to me,” he implores. “The B.C. thing is real. I dreamt about it again, and I know—I know—it’s not just in my head.”
His words hit me hard, the tone, and for a second, I’m back to that night when he called about his wife, his voice trembling with that same raw panic. I press the phone tighter to my ear.
“Jackson, calm down,” I say.
“You calm down, Vick—hic—key,” he pants. “It’s real!”
“You’re drunk,” I sigh.
He isn’t getting his life back like this. He’s digging himself a grave, and I’m running out of shovels.
“I don’t care! Me having a few drinks don’t change the fucking facts.”
I can’t answer. I don’t know what to say to him.
“Vickie, are you there? Dammit, you have to look into it,” he pleads, his voice cracking. “Please. I can’t do this alone. They won’t listen to me, and you’re the only one—the only one who gets it. You have to look for that B.C., whatever it is, I k-know it’s them—Look at the safe house camera feeds. Please. They’re hiding something.”
“Who is?”
“I don’t know—”
A sigh escapes me. It’s a loop with him, a pattern I can’t seem to break. But I can’t ignore that bone-deep terror in his voice.
“Jackson.”
“Please—”
How can I say no to my friend? Even if he’s teetering on the edge of crazy. I’m not exactly a pillar of sanity myself.
“Alright, buddy. I’ll check it out,” I say. “But you need to get some rest, okay? Promise me that. Let me handle this.”
He mutters a lisping, “Thank you,” the sound defeated, and the call cuts out. I stare at the phone momentarily, my thoughts spiraling, a hundred different scenarios flashing before my eyes.
Stay calm. It’s nothing.
Whatever this B.C. is, I’ll figure it out, solve it, and make it go away.
This might actually be a good exercise for my skills as a private investigator—something to help me sharpen my instincts. Maybe this is the kind of case I need to cut my teeth on, to see if I really have what it takes.
I head to our home office through the mansion—Don’s old study, where he and my father used to talk business. Business means blood diamonds, jewelry, drug smuggling, and laundering the money until it looks clean. That was my father’s job—he was good with numbers and even better with people.
Don and my father were best friends since childhood. They started life together, lived it together, and, in the end, they died together— almost . Both were murdered in the same year—by Vinny.
I enter the room.
The quiet of the mansion is almost too much today. The computer screen flickers to life as I touch the mouse, its glow cutting through the dim space. I start digging into the feeds from the safe house Jackson mentioned.
It’s not a simple task.
The safe house has been locked down for over a year, meaning no one has come in or out. The feeds should still be here—somewhere. But they’re buried under layers of encryption, likely compressed and archived in offsite cloud storage to save space. A maze of forgotten files, guarded by digital demons.
If there’s ever a time to play private investigator, it’s truly now.
I start clicking through folders, following a trail of timestamps and security logs. But something feels off. Some files are missing, not just hidden—wiped clean.
“Where are you?” I mutter, scanning the screen. "This is a digital murder for Victoria Galli to solve... Isn’t it?"
Their existence is erased, as if they were never there.
Why is that? And more importantly—who?
Whatever I’m about to find, it’s trouble. Someone’s hiding something. Something big.
I crack my knuckles and rub my Chi-Rho tattoo, settling in for the long haul.
This is for you, Dad.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, scanning through data and trying to piece it all together. These aren’t just deleted files. This is the mess left behind by a careful cover-up.
I know my way around computers, but this? This is way over my head.
Damn it.
Beads of sweat run down my forehead. Is it warm in here? Mrs. Gambini probably heated the room, knowing someone would want to work here today. But for once, her good intentions are working against me. I blink and try to focus on the computer screen again.
The system resists, pushing back, but so do I.
With every ounce of focus and determination, I press on, my eyes burning and my fingers aching. I have to do this for Jackson and his kids. I need to know the truth.
I piece together the shattered fragments, frame by frame, line by line—rebuilding what’s been erased, like fixing a broken mirror. But I know the reflection will only show bad things.
Time slips away as the room darkens around me. Hours feel like minutes as I stitch the pieces together, following the breadcrumbs, folders within folders. Some files are nonsense, others lead to dead ends, but a few are right there—hidden in plain sight, like someone tried to distract me from them.
Come on, Nica. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Finally, the feed flickers to life, like a heart trying to beat after being still for too long.
There.
It’s running. I can’t believe it.
Rubbing my temples, I start watching the safe house footage. The house is located in the woods.
I run it at high speed, knowing I have weeks of footage to go through. Day one after we closed the house, day two, day three... I run them over while Mrs. Gambini sneaks in with lemonade.
I hardly look at her; I’m too occupied with the screen.
“Thanks, Fanny,” I mutter. “You’re an angel.”
“You’re welcome, darling,” she rasps and sneaks out.
Day 16...Day 17… Day 33…. Day 34… I widen my eyes, leaning closer to the screen, as the timestamp flashes by. The footage blurs and I scramble to rewind it, my fingers trembling on the keyboard. The night vision footage flickers, showing only shadows and faint outlines in the darkness.
I stop the playback, holding my breath.
It’s.. . a deer.
A simple deer grazing in the brush, its eyes reflecting the light like mirrors in the night. I bite my lip, trying to calm my racing heart, suddenly feeling foolish.
This was a bad idea. Why did I believe Jackson?
Nothing he’s said has brought me anything real. The last eight months have been a blur of confusion and frustration, and still, I’m sitting here, clinging to a thread of hope, chasing ghosts. Looking for what? A deer.
I shake my head at my naivety. How could I have been so gullible? I curse Jackson under my breath, the bitterness bubbling up before I quickly swallow it, realizing how pointless it is to blame him.
It’s not his fault. He’s frustrated, depressed and looking for answers. I’m the one who chose to look into this.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. I need a break, sighing I reach for the mouse, but then, I see it.
I freeze.
It’s not the deer. It’s someone.
The figure is barely visible in the shadows, but I see it—slim, hooded, moving with deliberate, unnatural stealth. The silhouette shifts across the screen, almost blending into the night, but the movement is too precise to be an animal.
My pulse spikes.
Who is that? Why are they here?
I hold my breath again, unsure if I’m even breathing, as I slow the playback down frame by frame. The grainy quality of the footage makes it difficult to catch any details, and the image is pixelated and distorted, but it doesn’t matter.
I know what I saw.
That figure… it’s familiar. It tugs at something deep in my gut, a recognition I can’t place. I stare harder, squinting at the screen, but it’s like trying to make out the details of a dream fading too quickly.
Ice water flows through my veins like a cold rush of dread.
This is it.
I replay the footage again, desperate for more. This isn’t just a random figure in the woods.
This is something bigger and darker, and I can feel it.
The slim figure enters the safe house, their movements precise, calculated—like a well-rehearsed dance. I watch, my breath caught in my throat, my pulse quickening. They step inside, and I switch to the feed from the house’s interior that I’ve pieced together.
They drop something—a paper? A folder? It’s hard to make out in the dim lighting. Is that what Jackson found? Is this the key to everything?
The figure rummages through the space, moving like a ghost, careful not to touch anything, not to leave a trace. Their hands glide over objects, never lingering, never hesitating, as if they’re afraid of leaving behind evidence. The camera captures it all, but the audio is garbage—just static, fuzzy white noise. The hooded person takes out a phone, the glow from the screen briefly illuminating their face, but I can’t see the features clearly.
Damn it.
I see their lips move, though. Is the person having a conversation? The shape of their mouth suggests words, but I can’t hear anything. The static fills my ears instead, like a constant buzz. I curse the silence.
What are they saying? Why is this happening?
The stillness is maddening. The phone call feels like an important piece of the puzzle, slipping further and further from my grasp. All I have is a figure standing in front of me, with their lips moving.
I switch to another feed, maybe I’ll get a better angle, anything that will give me more clarity. My pulse pounds in my ears as I strain to get a better view. But there’s nothing new—just shadows and glimpses, nothing that helps me make sense of it.
Then, the figure slips out of view, leaves the house, and vanishes into the night like a phantom. It’s over almost as quickly as it started, and all I’m left with is frustration and the overwhelming feeling that I’ve uncovered absolutely nothing.
Great, Nica. Some PI you would have been.
I let out a breath, slumping back in my chair. I rest my eyes on the screen, ready to close the laptop and continue this nightmare tomorrow. It’s not like I’ve gotten anywhere, anyway.
But then, I see it again. Movement.
It’s subtle, almost imperceptible. Another figure steps into view, just outside the house. The light from the camera blinks as they approach, and I lean forward, my heart skipping a beat. This time, it’s different.
The two figures meet and exchange words. Their voices are muted, but there’s no mistaking the way the second figure glances around nervously, their body language tight, wary. They know they’re being filmed. They’re aware of the cameras, aware they’re being watched.
And then they step closer to the camera— As if daring me to see more.
The moment stretches, time slowing to a crawl.
The second figure raises a hand—slow, deliberate—
And flips the camera off.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
A cold chill rushes through me.
The second figure is a man.
A man I know.
He mouths the words fuck you, his face half-hidden by the hood.
But his eyes—sharp, cold, piercing—Unmistakable.
My blood turns to ice.
Vinny.
De.
Luca.
You bastard.
My hands tremble on the keyboard as I hit pause, the image burned into my mind. The warmth drains from my body, replaced by an icy dread that settles deep in my bones. This isn’t a coincidence or just some message. This is a personal challenge, and he is daring me to take it.
I grab my phone, my fingers shaking as I type:
‘Meet me at the mansion. Now.’
I send it to Elio, Gio, and Jackson, the urgency clawing at my chest like an animal trying to escape its cage. This is the man who assaulted me, killed my father, and killed Elio’s father. My body screams to run, to hide, but I know it’s not an option.
The nightmare I thought I’d escaped is far from over.
Vinny’s back and he’s not hiding.
My phone rings immediately . It’s Elio. I don’t hesitate—I swipe to answer, but my eyes never leave the feed. I watch as the idiot raises his fist, and then—bam—the camera’s lens shatters in an instant. It feels like the force of the blow is breaking more than just the screen. My whole world shudders with the impact like he’s cracked my bones, my mind—everything.
Angry tears burn at the corners of my eyes, but I don’t let myself look away. How dare he? I blink, my vision swimming with rage.
“Nica?” Elio’s voice cuts through the noise in my head. “Are you safe? What’s going on?”
I don’t even have the energy to speak. My voice is a tight knot in my throat. I try to steady myself, but my hands are shaking as I stare at the broken camera feed.
“V—Vinny’s fucking back—” The words escape, barely a whisper, but enough for him to hear.
There’s silence on the other end. Then Elio’s voice drops—low, cold. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. He’s a dead man walking.”
Elio’s coming.
But I know it’s never that simple with Vinny. It’s never easy.
I let the phone dangle from my ear, my eyes still glued to the screen, watching the feed glitch out after the shattered lens.
My heart’s racing.
What was Vinny doing at the safe house?
And who was with him?
No one answers me.
* * *
The mansion’s is like a pressure cooker about to explode. Gio, Elio, and Jackson are gathered around me, their bodies practically vibrating like wolves circling prey. The prey being the video feed I’m playing on a loop for them.
“Ff-uck,” Jackson slurs.
The soft glow of the screen illuminates their faces, casting light over clenched jaws and narrowed eyes.
“Can we get sound?” Elio asks, his hands balled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. He’s trying to remain calm, but I can see the fury simmering beneath the surface.
“I tried,” I say, my gaze fixed on the screen. I run a hand through my hair, pushing back the strands that have fallen onto my face. “It’s grainy, the audio is corrupted.”
“Why were the files corrupted in the first place?” Gio asks, his voice sharp, eyes darting toward the screen. “Did someone on the inside do that?”
Jackson glances over his shoulder with a grim look on his face. “It’s s-standard when you lock down a safe house. You surveil it for a year after, then it’s ready for a change in ownership.” The smell of stale alcohol wafts off him like a toxic cloud.
I’m not buying his words, though.
This feels like a deliberate game of cat-and-mouse, and I’ll be damned if I’m the mouse. I will be the cat, and I will hunt them both down—no matter the cost.
As my mind locks on my next move, a message beeps in. My phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance at the screen. It’s from my mom.
‘Please—Victoria… meet me? For coffee, and that’s it…’
I freeze for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard. A knot tightens in my stomach. I want to ignore it and tell her I’m too busy, but something about it makes me hesitate.
I put the phone down, rubbing my eyes. “Not now,” I mutter under my breath, then type out a quick reply.
‘I’ll write you later, occupied.’
The words feel like a lie, but they’re the easiest to send.
Gio leans in, his posture tense, his eyes narrowed to slits, his gaze fixed on the screen. “Who the fuck is that?” he grunts, pointing at the second figure—the one who’s not Vinny.
I pause the footage, the figure in the hood frozen on the screen.
“I don’t know, but what we need to focus on right now is Vinny. Where the hell is he? And what’s he up to?” I say.
“Maybe Vinny isn’t the mastermind here?” Gio says, still scowling at the footage. “It looks like he’s late to the party.”
He’s right, the other figure came first and checked out the safehouse.
Elio’s hand slams down on the desk, the wood shuddering under the force like a tree struck by lightning. “That piece of shit. Of course he is behind it,” he snaps, his eyes burning into the screen. “Like he killed Don, and Mattheo.”
“Easy, buddy,” Gio grunts.
Jackson steps forward, his eyes bloodshot. “H-hic—how?” he spits out. “How is that cockroach Vinny De Luca still alive?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my nails digging into my skin. The urge to do something, to hunt Vinny down and beat him to a pulp, to make him pay, bubbles up like a volcano about to erupt. “He’s not just back. He’s sending a message—like he’s taunting us.”
“Fuckin’ Vinny,” Jackson says, his hand shaking as he tries to grab onto anything that will keep him from shaking.
“He could be just a puppy,” Gio says. “Playing someone else’s pipe?”
“He’s not. Vinny doesn’t work that way,” I say, knowing the words might send Jackson over the edge, if he thinks Vinny killed his wife.
And it’s exactly what happens…
The detective stumbles back as if hit by a physical blow, the color drained from his face, making him look like a ghost that has returned from the dead. “That bastard… That’s him, that’s him, isn’t it?” he says. “He did it, didn’t he? He took her from me! That piece of shit stole her from me,” he shouts, his whole body trembling as he moves closer to the screen, staring at the image as if he is looking at the devil himself.
“Easy,” Elio says.
“Easy?” Jackson bursts out, his whole body vibrating. “Easy? He took Carol, damn it. And he is out there, walking free. You know… that’s who he is, right there. He is behind that fucking Broad Corporation too, I know it. That’s the connection. That’s what I was dreaming about,” he says, his finger pointing at the screen, a sudden sense of clarity in his gaze, like a madman suddenly making sense.
I nod slowly, my gaze locking with his. “I don’t think he killed Carol, Jackson. But he might be involved with that Broad Corporation… I think it’s a shell company for money laundering.”
Elio runs a hand through his hair, his eyes narrowed. “We need to be smart about this. We need to plan,” he says. “He can just be playing us—I know my brother. He might want us to walk into a trap. This could all be a set-up.”
“Plan?” Gio scoffs, his hand caresses the handle of his gun. “What’s there to plan? We get him. We make him pay. This is what we do. We make people pay.”
“No,” Elio says. “We don’t do anything reckless, and we need to think before we act. We can’t act without thinking; we need to be smarter and more careful. We figure out his game first. What does he want? Before we move a finger, we need to know everything.”
“What does he want? He wants to watch us suffer. That’s what he wants,” Gio says.
I agree. That sounds just like Vinny.
“He wants to see what he can take away from us. He wants to watch us fall apart like a tower of cards collapsing. So let’s show him that we are not afraid, that we are ready. That we will tear him apart,” I say.
My body is vibrating with anger, and I can feel the raw, violent energy rising inside me.
“No, Nica. Now is the time we need to be careful,” Elio says, his eyes fixed on mine, trying to talk me down. “Think of Celeste , think of everyone.”
“We’ve been careful for too long, Elio. Careful doesn’t work,” I snap. “God knows what else he’s been doing for the last eight months… It’s time to act, not wait, to strike, not to be struck. Enough! I want his head. I will rip it off with my bare hands.” The words come out before I can stop them.
I think about his knife at my entrance, his hands on my body. The memory makes bile rise in my throat, and I gag, my stomach twisting violently. I can still feel the cold press of the blade, the way his fingers gripped me like I was nothing but an object to him.
The sensation of his touch makes my skin crawl. I close my eyes, trying to push the feeling away, but it sticks like oil on my skin, impossible to scrub off. My hands ball into fists, nails digging into my palms as I fight the urge to scream.
Then, Elio’s hands are on me, cupping my face gently. His thumb strokes over my cheek. I can feel the heat of his touch seeping into my skin.
“Don’t get me wrong, Nica. He will pay for what he did to you. But without anyone I love getting hurt.” he says softly, trying to reason with me.
He’s right, as always.
“It’s just that Celeste deserves to live in a world free from bastards like him. I swear, I will end him, Elio, I will,” I pant, leaning into his touch.
Kissing my forehead, he says, “I know you will.”
Before anyone can say another word, the intercom buzzes—a sharp, jarring sound.
Steven’s voice, usually so measured, is tight, almost frantic, crackling through the speaker.
“Vinny’s at the fucking gate!” He shouts. “He’s here. Right now. Shall I pull the trigger?”
My breath stutters. The walls seem to shrink.
No, no, no.
Gio’s eyes light up with something wild, a feral grin spreading across his face. His hand moves instinctively to the gun in his waistband.
“Vinny’s at the fucking gate?” he growls. “Shall I put a bullet through his head? End this, right now?”
I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m suffocating, drowning.
Elio steps closer to Gio. “Think before you act.” His hand hovers near Gio’s gun, not quite grabbing it, but close enough to make a point. “We don’t do this stupidly.”
But Gio is already moving. The room shifts. And me? I don’t know whether to run toward the gate or away from it.
“Bring him to the main door, disarmed. I need a word with my brother,” Elio says and draws his gun.