Chapter 23 Aiden
TWENTY-THREE
AIDEN
Five years I’d spent clawing at ghosts, talking to a headstone, begging for answers that never came. Five years wishing for a different outcome that fateful day.
I’d memorized the way her name looked carved into granite, traced it with trembling fingers until my skin went numb.
I’d never expected this truth.
She wasn’t buried under the damp New York earth. She had been out there all along. Breathing and living. Possibly even mocking.
My chest went tight, the air slicing like glass in my lungs. Everything I’d built to survive her loss—the therapy, the whiskey, the hollow reassurances that time heals—split apart at the seams. The grief I’d learned to cradle turned feral, tearing through me until only fury was left.
My knuckles whitened, a tremor running down my arm. Five years. Five goddamn years of sleepless nights, of hating myself for not saving her. She’d stolen them all: every moment, every tear, every nightmare that had me waking in a cold sweat.
She didn’t just fake her death.
She buried me instead.
And I was done mourning. The sorrow and pain were instantly replaced by rage and a need to make her pay.
The woman owed me five fucking years of anguish, self-loathing, and nightmares.
“And did you?” Amon asked, drawing my attention back with a raised brow. It took me a second to process the question, recalling what the fuck we were even talking about. Ah, that’s right, we were talking about Luca and his idea that I should come to this shitshow rather than him.
Slower than molasses, I dragged my eyes away from my wife and exhaled through my nose.
“Maybe.” I found it hard to speak and not look back at the stage. “I’m actually glad I caught you alone.”
He cocked a brow. “And why’s that?”
My gaze was back on Raven. She was glowing and happy, and that made me even more angry. While I mourned her, she’d moved on.
Amon cleared his throat, and I mentally slapped myself. I had to stop staring at that woman before someone got wind of it. So I turned to look at him, keeping Raven in my periphery.
“Margaret told me you helped her find Luca when Marchetti kidnapped him.” Luca and Enrico had a falling out, and the latter insisted on a marriage arrangement between my niece and his own son. Needless to say, it was a sore subject among our families. “I won’t forget it.”
“I’d rather you did forget it,” he replied with an impassive face.
“Why did you do it?” I asked him absentmindedly, watching him for another beat before a certain model on stage pulled my attention back.
But Amon deflected with a question of his own. “Where are your brothers? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without them by your side.”
“Probably stirring up trouble somewhere.”
I changed the subject, knowing exactly what would distract him from my business. “You know the Romero girls?”
“Not really.” His jaw clenched. He was lying, but I didn’t care enough to call him out on it. “Excuse me,” he said, but I didn’t spare him a glance.
My focus had already snapped back to the stage and the wife who’d crawled out from the ashes.
Grinding my teeth and glaring at her from the shadows like my life depended on it, I was already scheming how to make her pay.