Chapter sixteen
Dragging myself out of bed, I groggily shuffle toward the bathroom, my body protesting with every sluggish step. My head pounds in protest, a dull, insistent ache that only makes my already sour mood worse.
The moment I step into the bathroom, the cool tile beneath my feet sends a small shiver up my spine. My blurry reflection stares back at me from the mirror—bloodshot eyes, smudged makeup, and hair that looks like I fought a war in my sleep and lost.
Lovely.
Grumbling under my breath, I grab the glass cup left on my nightstand and fill it with cold water. The Advil bottle sits beside it, a small mercy in the mess of last night. I pop two pills into my mouth and swallow them down in one go, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.
As I wipe away the remnants of my smeared mascara, I catch sight of my attire—or rather, lack thereof. My dress and jewelry are missing, replaced by only my lacy underwear and Vincenzo's oversized shirt.
I sigh. He must've undressed me last night.
The thought sends a shiver of something—annoyance?
Embarrassment?—crawling up my spine. I shake it off and reach for my black robe, tying it snugly around my waist. With tired fingers, I run a brush through the tangled mess of my hair, wincing when the bristles catch on the knots.
I tug until they come free, then twist my hair into a messy bun.
It's a poor attempt at looking presentable, but it's the best I can manage right now.
With a weary sigh, I make my way downstairs.
The low murmur of voices drifts from the kitchen, a mixture of laughter and conversation. I pause at the doorway, hesitating.
Please let it be the maids.
I'm not in the mood to deal with Vincenzo—not yet. I need at least an hour before I can handle any sort of serious conversation.
But as the chatter abruptly stops, my stomach twists with irritation.
I step into the kitchen, my eyes immediately locking onto the last two people I wanted to see—the bitch who attacked me last night and her little lapdog, both perched at the breakfast bar like they belong here.
Someone give me strength...
Ignoring them, I stride toward the fridge and pull out a carton of orange juice. I'm not here for a fight. I just want my juice and maybe a few minutes of peace before dealing with the shitstorm waiting for me upstairs.
One of the girls clears her throat.
I ignore her.
As I pour myself a glass, she does it again—louder this time.
I exhale slowly through my nose, already on the verge of losing my patience.
Finally, I turn to face them, leaning against the counter with my glass in hand. "Do you need a fucking soother or something? Instead of sitting there clearing your throat like a dying cat, just spit it out."
The blonde—Tiffany, or whatever the hell her name is—narrows her eyes and shoots up from her seat.
"Bitch, who do you think you're talking to?" she snaps, her tone laced with arrogance.
I tilt my head mockingly. "You, Tiffany. Who else?"
Her friend frowns, clearly confused. "Who the fuck is Tiffany?"
I roll my eyes. Of course she doesn't even know her own friend's name.
Instead of answering, I grab the entire orange juice carton, abandoning my glass on the counter. On my way out, I snag the box of Oreo O's from the pantry and make my escape to the back garden.
The moment I step outside, the fresh air does little to help my headache, but at least it's quiet. The sun warms my skin as I walk toward the pool, dipping my feet into the cool water.
With a sigh, I rip open the cereal box and shove a handful into my mouth, groaning softly at the chocolaty goodness.
Hangover cure? Not quite. But chocolate always helps.
I drink straight from the orange juice carton, savoring the tangy sweetness before stretching out on my back, staring up at the sky. The clouds drift lazily, and for a brief moment, I allow my mind to wander—back to New York, back to the life I left behind.
Waking up to the sound of honking taxis, the smell of fresh espresso from the café down the street. The rhythmic hum of my family and gang members planning heists and missions, their laughter echoing through the halls.
It was chaotic, but it was home.
I longed for that normalcy again—for a life that didn't feel like a carefully laid trap.
I used to dream about falling in love, sneaking out at night to dance on empty beaches or grabbing pancakes at some 24-hour diner, talking until sunrise.
Me and Jax had made plans for that kind of life.
After I finished medical school, we were supposed to leave. We wanted to start over in the UK, live on the right side of the law for once. Have kids, build something real—something safe.
It was foolish, in hindsight.
The kind of dream that had no place in our world.
Now, instead of chasing that future, I had willingly walked into a loveless marriage with a cold, ruthless man who didn't know how to have fun.
I close my eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but they linger like ghosts from a life I can never reclaim.
The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts.
A shadow blocks my sunlight.
I frown, tilting my head up to see Angelo standing over me, his expression unreadable.
"Boss will be home soon," he informs me. "I thought you might want to talk to your parents before he gets back and chews you out for last night."
I stare at him for a moment before nodding, lifting my hand so he can help me up.
He hauls me to my feet with ease, then grabs the empty juice carton, gesturing toward the house.
I pick up my cereal box and follow him, dragging my feet slightly.
As we make our way toward the control room, I glance at him and ask, "Do you speak Spanish?"
He frowns, clearly confused by the sudden question. "No. English, Italian, Latin, and Sicilian. Why?"
I shrug. "Just curious."
His frown deepens, but he doesn't push for an answer.
He sets up the video call, and after two rings, Mamma answers.
The sound of Babbo and Nico talking in the background brings a small, genuine smile to my face.
"?Hola, Mamma! ?Puedes hablar espa?ol? Entonces no nos entiende," I greet, switching to Spanish.
(Translation: Hey, Mamma! Can you speak Spanish? So he doesn't understand us?)
Mamma's expression immediately softens. "?Mi ni?a peque?a te están tratando bien? Patearé sus traseros si ellos no son," she frets.
(Translation: My baby girl, are they treating you well? I will kick their asses if they're not.)
I giggle. "Estoy mayormente sola cada día."
(Translation: I'm mostly alone every day.)
It's not a complete lie.
Mamma had always been protective of me, but Babbo and Nico? They were worse.
I remember how Nico used to chase off any boy who came within five feet of me unless they were family or part of the gang. Babbo had practically ordered it.
No wonder I never had a normal teenage experience.
"Women, speak Italian or English or something," Babbo complains in the background. "You know I'm terrible at Spanish!"
Mamma and I roll our eyes at the same time, making Nico chuckle.
"?Entonces no necesito lastimar a nadie? ?O contratar al Segador también?" Nico jokes.
(Translation: So I don't need to hurt anybody? Or hire the Reaper too?)
I smirk. "Not yet."
Before I can say more, the front door opens, and I know my borrowed peace is about to shatter.
Vincenzo is home.