65. Luna
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
LUNA
The safehouse walls press closer with every hour Nico doesn’t walk through the door.
My hands won’t stop shaking, so I hide them in the folds of my dress. I wear Nico’s blood like a coat of honor, and every time I close my eyes, I’m back in the warehouse, tied to the chair while they torture my husband.
Sophie tries to hand me tea. Chamomile, like it’s a damn spa day. “Drink,” she pleads.
I let the cup cool on the windowsill. Outside, the sky is bruised purple. No headlights illuminate the gravel driveway, just the creak of the old house settling and the drip of a leaky faucet in the kitchen.
Bria circles the room like a caged animal, making me dizzy, but I’m too exhausted to tell her to stop.
“They’re late,” she screams, as if turning up the volume will summon them. I know she’s terrified that her brother saved her life and sacrificed his own in the process. Her panic is a mirror of my own.
My mother watches from the kitchen doorway. Three years of betrayal, and now her eyes won’t leave me. She sips coffee with trembling hands, and her lips pressed into a thin line. I don’t know why she came. Guilt? Duty? Or just to gloat if Nico doesn’t return safely? I’ve no idea.
From what I was told, she sang like a canary for her freedom. In this world, that gets you killed. Her only hope is that Nico killed my father, and the kingdom is his.
Caterina doesn’t bother hiding her contempt for me anymore. She sits on the sofa, her designer dress barely covering her thighs, while I contemplate how her society friends would feel about her disheveled state.
“You look ridiculous,” she says, not looking up from her nail file. “Playing the devoted wife when everyone knows he’s cleaning up your mess.”
“Careful, Caterina. In case you’ve forgotten, crowns have widows too.” Her smile falters, just for a heartbeat.
“You’d crumble without him.”
“No?” I say, leaning closer. “You would.” Immediately, my mother pushes off the wall, voice rising.
“Luna, you can’t…”
“Don’t.” The word cracks like a whip. “You don’t get to speak to me. Not after the things you said. Not after you left.” Her face crumples, but I turn away. Letting her suffocate in her regret.
“What if they’re all dead?” Bria whispers. The room stills as Bria collapses into a chair, nails digging into the armrest.
I lean forward, my stare carving into Bria. “Then we retaliate and kill every last one of them.”
No one speaks. The grandfather clock chimes at three a.m. Nico’s favorite hour.
“Quietest time of the night,” he’d say. “Best for getting shit done.”
My lungs seize. Where are you?
“Slaughterhouse’s gone,” one nurse says. “Burned to the ground. No survivors.” My heart stutters. Nico never mentioned the slaughterhouse, just the church where Bria was being held. He could’ve been there. He could’ve— No. I won’t let my mind go there. Not until I know for sure.
Bria starts crying. Ugly, gulping sobs that make Caterina roll her eyes. Sophie reaches for her, but Bria slaps her hand away. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
Hours tick by, and my tea gets colder by the minute.
When dawn splits the horizon, blood-red and relentless, I rise.
My legs tremble, but I walk to the window.
There’s nothing as far as the eye can see since the safehouse is tucked away in the woods, miles from the city.
The only movement is Nico’s soldiers, who continue to pace back and forth.
I’ve no doubt the staff is getting their intel from one of them when they come in to grab something to eat or use the facilities.
Bria finally falls asleep, streaks of tears carving through her mascara. Caterina stares at the ceiling, her jaw working like she’s rehearsing eulogies. Little does she know that she’ll be long gone before Nicolai ever will be, and then I’ll be dancing on her grave.
My mother approaches, now that the room is finally quiet. “I’m sorry.” I don’t bother to acknowledge her presence.
“For which part?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer.
I count the seconds. The heartbeats and the lies I tell myself.
Nico has to be alive. If he wasn’t, I’d feel it. Wouldn’t I?
I touch the ring on my finger, Nico’s grandmother’s. The metal bites into my skin, now that I’m pregnant. If he’s dead, I’ll wear his vengeance like a crown. If he’s alive, I’ll carve my love into his enemies’ bones.
But being in limbo is a worse fate than being tortured in hell by the devil himself.
My eyelids start to burn, but I won’t give in. I step away from the window and sit on the edge of the bed. Closing my eyes for just a second. The dream crashes in, fast and blinding.
Nico’s hands frame my face, calloused and warm. “Look at you,” he says, grinning that wolf’s grin. “Queen of the Caputo famiglia.”
We stand in the foyer of a new mansion—marble floors, vaulted ceilings, sunlight pooling like liquid gold. His thumb brushes soot from my cheek. “This one’s fireproof,” he jokes, but his gaze drifts to the staircase. On the nursery door at the top.
Our daughter’s laughter spills down the hall. She has his smile, my stubborn chin. Nico lifts her high, her tiny fists grabbing at his tie. “You’re gonna ruin me, piccolina,” he growls, but he’s already melting, already soft in ways only she and I ever see.
Later, in bed, his lips trace the scar on my shoulder. “They’re all dead,” he murmurs. “Every last one who touched you.”
I thread my fingers through his hair. “And if they come back?”
His laugh vibrates against my skin. “Then we’ll burn them again.”
The dream morphs. We’re walking into a gala, my gown is blood red, and his suit is as black as night. The room parts and the whispers follow. D’Angelo’s. The phoenix and his flame. He tucks me against his side, his grip possessive. “Smile, mi amore,” he whispers. “They’re all watching.”
I bare my teeth, and the crowd flinches.
I jolt awake, the dream unraveling like smoke. The bright sun glows through the dirty windows.
My mother hovers nearby, holding a steaming mug. “You should eat,” she says.
I ignore her.
Caterina rises, tugging on her dress and reminding me that we all desperately need clean clothes. “We need to make a plan just in case Nico doesn’t return.” Her tone is clipped, but her knuckles whiten on the chair. She’s scared.
The soldiers outside are arguing now, voices low and urgent. My pulse thunders. The squeal of tires? Engines?
A door slams.