Chapter 23
Stella
Happiness is a tender thing. One minute you have it, and the next… you don’t.
The past forty-eight hours have been an utter, total nightmare.
First Marcello gets arrested by the Feds right in front of Nonno’s gym. Then we find out Isobel is an undercover FBI agent tasked with taking my brother down for Father McDonagh’s murder.
My palm still stings from the slap I gave her when she had the nerve to walk into our house yesterday and confess her part in Marcello’s arrest. Still, she made good in the end and found a way to clear him of any liability.
Lucky’s boyfriend, Alejandro, also made his choice between God and this family. He chose us.
But if the stress of Marcello being detained in a federal building wasn’t enough, then my father getting shot the same day Marcello was released… that was the nail in my coffin.
We’ve been holed up all night at Mercy Hospital, waiting for news, praying he survives surgery.
Everyone is a wreck.
But I’ve kept it together.
I had to.
Because if I give into fear, I will lose my mind.
My dad can’t die. He just can’t. Our family doesn’t make sense without him. And I don’t even want to think about the repercussions of forcing Marcello to become Capo dei Capi before he’s ready. War would break out among the families. And if that happens, none of us are safe.
No.
My dad can’t die.
He just can’t.
He won’t.
My phone vibrates again, Kirill’s name lighting up the screen.
I hit ignore for what feels like the hundredth time today.
Apparently, news travels fast in the underground world, alerting all the big families that the Outfit’s boss is currently lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life.
I know Kirill’s nonstop calls have nothing to do with the Bratva sending us their hopes and prayers, that he’s just desperate to hear my voice, desperate to know if I’m okay, but I’m the furthest thing from being okay.
And if I answer…if I hear even one second of his voice…I’ll break.
And if I break, I’m done for.
I lean my head back against the wall and take in my siblings, all looking exhausted, hollow-eyed, barely hanging on by thread.
Just a few days ago we were celebrating Annamaria’s sweet sixteen. Even Mina and Jude flew home for it.
Now look at us.
Coiled tight.
One wrong breath away from cracking.
“Stella,” Anna whispers, her eyes swollen and red from crying. “What time is it?”
I glance at the screen and see that it’s a quarter to three in the morning, and that I have twelve new missed calls. Eighteen new texts. All from Kirill.
“It’s late,” I reply. “You should try to sleep.”
“I can’t. I… can’t.”
“Shh.” I pull her head into my lap, brushing her hair back, trying to soothe her. “It’s okay. Dad will get out of this. You’ll see.” Her body trembles so violently I have to wrap my arms fully around her. “It’s okay, Anna. I swear it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” she cries, pulling upright, panic dulling her pretty angelic face.
“Don’t you see, Stella? This was what I always feared would happen.
If we continued with the family business.
It was all but inevitable. Today it was our father, but it could have been any one of our dads.
It could have been Jude. Or Marcello. Or you, Stella.
It could have been you,” she says, her voice cracking at the end as she clings to me, sobbing and terrified.
I hold her tighter, whispering words of comfort into her hair.
But in my mind, a darker nightmare rises. One that had never taken root in my mind before, only provoked into existence with my sister’s manic words.
It could have been Kirill.
It could have been him.
Not in the same scenario as my father, but in any of the countless violent ways he risks himself every day. The Bratva isn’t exactly on good terms with other organizations. There are plenty of people out there that would love nothing more than to wipe them out entirely.
My eyes flick to Mina, and suddenly I picture one of her cousins—Remus, or Rolo—driving a blade straight into Kirill’s heart.
A cold terror grips me.
Stronger than anything I’ve ever felt.
I pull Anna close, needing the anchor so I don’t fall out of my chair.
It could have been Kirill.
He could be the one lying in a hospital bed right now, at death’s door instead of my father.
And guilt crashes over me so hard it steals my breath.
Because while my dad is in surgery, while the man who raised me, who taught me to tie my shoes, who tucked me and Anna into bed every night, is fighting for his life, all I can think about is Kirill’s lifeless corpse at my feet.
All I can see is him bleeding out before me.
All I can feel is that helpless terror of watching the light in his eyes being permanently snuffed out.
It’s paralyzing.
Suffocating.
It’s death’s tormenting, ice-cold hands squeezing my heart to pulp.
“Stella?” Anna’s voice trembles, her own tears spilling.
But when she sees my face and how ghostly pale I’ve gone, her eyes flare into a new panic.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she rushes to apologize, clutching me tighter, desperate to erase whatever terror she just unleashed inside me.
But the damage is already done.
I see it now.
I see everything now.
All this time, I was terrified to love him because I thought I would lose myself in it. Lose my identity. But there was always a far crueler way to destroy me.
If Kirill died, I would cease to exist.
If Kirill met his death, I would follow soon after.
If anyone took him from me, I would hunt every last one of them down before I met their same fate.
Here I was afraid of losing myself to love, when the real danger was always living without it.
Without him.
I don’t sleep the rest of the night.
I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep.
Every time I blink, I see Kirill’s dead hands on my cheeks.
Cold.
Lifeless.
Gone.
And when my mother steps into the waiting room at sunrise and says the words we’ve been dying to hear, that our father made it out of his surgery just fine and that he’s going to live, I shatter. Completely.
My throat closes.
My vision blurs.
And something inside me breaks free with a force that nearly knocks me over.
“Stella!” someone calls out behind me, but I’m already running. Through the hospital corridors. Past the rooms. Past the chaos.
I need out.
Out of this place.
Out of this coffin of fear.
Out of this reminder that life can be taken in a single heartbeat.
When the spring sun hits my face, I collapse to my knees outside, sobbing into my hands, utterly unprepared for the truth that has finally caught up to me.
I love him.
God help me, I love him so much it might actually kill me.
“Piccolina,” my mother whispers, dropping beside me and pulling her arms around my shaking shoulders. She lifts me gently from the ground, holding me like she did when I was a child. “Tell me what’s wrong, Stella. Tell me so I can ease your pain.”
“You can’t,” I sob. “No one can. I’m doomed, Mammá. Ruined. And I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”
“Afraid of what, sweet girl? Didn’t you hear? Your father is going to be just fine.”
But I shake my head so violently it makes me dizzy, trying to explain but the words won’t come, only broken sounds and gasping breaths.
My mother guides me to a bench across from the hospital doors, her own eyes bright with tears at the sight of me coming undone like this.
“Let me help you, Stella,” she whispers, brushing my hair back with trembling fingers. “Let me ease this suffering, my sweet girl.”
I pull away just enough to look at my mother, and in that moment I realize I will never be as strong as she is. Here she is, heart always exposed, loving not one but three men who walk into danger every single day. And she still smiles. She still loves. She still breathes through the fear.
“I can’t do it,” I choke out. “I’m not that strong. I’m weak, Mammá. I’m so weak. I’ll never be as strong as you.” My tears soak through her shirt, but she only holds me tighter, her arms wrapping around me like a shield against the world.
But she can’t protect my heart from this.
Only I can.
Only I can keep such pain away.
“Stella?”
I swear I hear him before I even see him, like my pain somehow summoned him out of thin air.
“Mr. Petrov,” my mother says, her voice hoarse from unshed tears and frayed at the edges. Seeing me like this hurts her too, maybe almost as much as it hurts me.
“I… I…” Kirill stammers, and when I lift my head, his eyes are filled with raw worry. “Is Vincent alright? Did he—”
“No. No.” My mother shakes her head quickly. “My husband is fine. He made it through surgery, and the doctors said he’ll be good as new in a few weeks’ time.” She tries to sound upbeat, but the tremble in her voice betrays her.
“Can I… Can I talk to Stella?” Kirill asks, voice quiet, anxious. Like if he doesn’t touch me soon, something in him might break.
“That’s up to Stella,” my mother answers gently. She turns my face toward hers, searching my eyes. “Do you want to talk to Mr. Petrov?”
“Please, Selene,” he interjects. “Call me Kill.”
“Excuse me if I refrain from using such a nickname today, all things considered.”
He swallows hard. “Yes. Of course. Kirill then.”
“I’m okay now, Mammá,” I manage to say, though my voice is barely a whisper. “Let me talk to him.”
“Are you sure?” She keeps my face cupped in her palms, unwilling to let go until she’s certain.
“I’m sure.”
My mother presses a kiss to my temple, slow and lingering, before releasing me. She gets up from the bench, smoothing my hair with one last stroke.
“If you need me, I’ll be right inside,” she promises, her eyes still glossy with worry.
I give her the softest, smallest smile I can manage and watch as she walks back toward the hospital entrance.
She looks over her shoulder twice, maybe three times, checking to make sure I truly am alright.
But I’m not. I never will be again.