Chapter 34
GIA
It’s late. Rafael is still downstairs. I can hear the low, rhythmic mumble of voices from the study—Matteo’s sharp cadence, Enzo’s gravelly interjections, and Rafael’s steady, commanding bass. They’re planning. They’re building walls. And here I am, the termite in the foundation.
I slip into the master bathroom, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot in the heavy silence. I don’t turn on the main light. The vanity LEDs are enough, casting a cold, clinical glow over the marble and making my skin look like it belongs to someone already dead.
“You’re a natural, little Gia. Dangerous and precise.”
His words from the training constantly in my head, a cruel, jagged irony that makes my stomach churnMy fingers are trembling as I reach into my jewelry box, my hand fumbling past the pearls and the gold until I find the hidden compartment. I pull out the burner.
I try to remember the files Rafael showed me earlier—the logistics, the maps, the guest lists. The trust he handed me like a gift, laid out in neat rows of data.
I am a traitor.
I begin to write a message listing all the details of the security rotation schedule for the Villa d'Este when I stop.
My hand just... stops.
I see the red marks where the guards will stand. I see the path Rafael will take to the podium. I see his death, written in pixels and coordinates. If I send these, I am handing my father the scalpel to cut Rafael’s throat.
He called me his quiet space. He told me I was the only thing that wasn't a target.
I lower the burner. The cool marble of the counter is biting into my palms, but I don't move. Minutes pass, measured only by the thudding of my heart and the distant, muffled hum of the men downstairs. I look at the message. I could send it right now. I could end the countdown. I could save Laura.
But if I send this, I’m not just saving a sister. I’m murdering the only man who ever made me feel like I was more than a signed contract.
I save the files to the device's internal memory, my jaw tight. Then, with a shaking thumb, I disable the transmission protocol. I kill the signal. No uplink.
"I can't do it," I whisper to my reflection.
I close the phone with finality. Then I pull out my own phone.
We need to speak. Tonight. At the club.
I press send before I can talk myself out of it. I don't wait for a reply. I just go back to bed and wait for the man I love to come upstairs, unaware that his wife is the one holding the map to his grave.
The club is a sensory assault.
The bass is a physical pressure against my ribs, a dark, pulsing heartbeat that matches the anxiety clawing at my throat.
The lights are a frantic strobe of neon purple and cold blue, catching the glint of crystal glasses and the sharp edges of expensive suits.
It’s a celebration of power, a gathering of the Brotherhood’s elite, and I am the ornament on Rafael’s arm.
He hasn't left my side all evening. His hand is a constant, possessive weight on my waist, his thumb caressing my dress in a way that makes my skin hum with a desperate, unwanted heat.
Even as he talks to the other leaders, even as he navigates the territorial optics he asked me about, his focus never truly leaves me.
"You're quiet tonight, little Gia," he murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush my ear. The scent of cedar and expensive scotch is an intoxication I’m struggling to resist. "Is the noise too much? Tell me, and I’ll burn this place down just to give you a moment of silence."
"It's just a lot," I say, leaning into him, letting the heat of his body steady my shaking knees. "I think I’m still a bit of a Parisian hermit at heart.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine. "We’ll leave soon. I just need ten minutes with Matteo and the others to finalize the arrival sequence. Stay here? Or do you want a tactical escort to the bar?"
"I think I can manage the walk to the restroom on my own, Rafael. I’ve been doing it since I was six. I promise not to get lost in the velvet."
He grins, a rare, unguarded flash of teeth that makes my heart ache. "Fine. But ten minutes. If you’re not back, I’m sending the cavalry to drag you back to me."
"I'll be back," I say, and the lie tastes like copper and salt.
He lets go of my waist, and I feel the cold immediately. I walk toward the restrooms, my head held high, my "Resting Bitch Face" firmly in place to ward off any stray glances. Security nods as I pass. They assume I’m heading for the stalls. They assume I’m safe.
I don't go to the restroom.
I slip through a side exit near the coat check, the heavy door muffling the bass behind me into a dull, distant thud.
The air in the service corridor is cool and smells of damp concrete and stale smoke.
I move quickly, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the tiles, until I reach the parking area at the rear of the building.
The rain is a fine, grey mist, blurring the edges of the black SUVs lined up like obsidian coffins. In the far corner, a single black sedan is idling, its exhaust a white plume in the cold air.
I walk toward it, my heart a frantic drum. The rear door opens before I even reach it.
I climb inside. The door closes with a heavy, muted thump, and the world goes silent.
The car smells of old leather, expensive tobacco, and the cold, clinical scent of my childhood.
Salvatore De Luca is sitting in the shadows of the backseat, his profile a sharp, predatory silhouette against the window.
He doesn't look at me. He doesn't greet me. He just stares at the back of the driver's head as if I’m an employee he’s about to fire.
"You're late, Gia," he says. His voice is a low, flat monotone that makes my skin crawl.
"The security is tighter," I say, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. "Rafael doesn't let me out of his sight. I had to wait for a gap that wouldn't raise alarms."
"What do you have for me? My patience is not as expansive as your husband’s estate."
I look at him, the man who sold me, the man who is currently counting down the seconds of my sister's life. "Nothing. I have nothing for you, Father. I'm done."
He turns his head then. His eyes are two pits of dark, frozen glass. "Nothing? You've had weeks. You've had access to his study, his bed, his trust. Don't tell me my daughter has forgotten how to be an asset. Or has the Butcher managed to buy your loyalty with a few shiny trinkets?"
"I’m not an asset! I’m a human being!" I snap, my stubbornness flaring through the terror.
"I can't do this anymore. The situation has gone too far. People are getting hurt—Rafael took a bullet meant for me! And the information you want... it’s not just territorial data. It’s an assassination.
I won't be the one who hands him over to be slaughtered. "
My father listens without visible emotion. He just reaches into the breast pocket of his coat and pulls out a tablet.
"You talk of people getting hurt," he says softly, the words like a velvet noose. "Let us talk of people who are still whole. For now."
He taps the screen and hands it to me.
My vision blurs for a second as the images load. They’re fresh. Recent. I can tell by the dress Laura is wearing—the one I sent her for her birthday. There are photos of her in the garden. Photos of her sleeping. And then a video.
It’s short. Ten seconds. She’s sitting at the piano, her small fingers stumbling over a scale. She looks up and smiles at the camera—at someone she thinks is a friend.
"She’s practicing her scales, Gia," my father murmurs, his voice a poisonous lullaby. "She wants to play for you when you come home. She asks about you every day. She wants to know if you've forgotten her. If you’ve traded her life for the life of a Caruso."
"Stop it," I whisper, the tablet trembling in my hands. "Please, just stop."
"I don't have to stop. I have forty-eight hours.
The Irish are impatient, and my patience is a finite resource.
" He leans in, his scent—cold marble and old blood—filling the car.
"If I don't have the codes and the verified timing for the summit by tomorrow night, Laura won't be practicing her scales anymore. "
"You wouldn't," I sob, the tears finally breaking through. "She's your daughter. She's nine years old!"
"She is a De Luca. And De Lucas are only as valuable as the loyalty they provide." He takes the tablet back, his touch clinical. "Rafael Caruso is a soldier. He knows the risks of this life. But Laura? She’s an innocent. Her blood will be on your hands, Gia. Not mine.”
I feel the emotional fracture deepen, a physical sensation of my soul being torn in two.
I look at the dark glass of the window, seeing my own reflection—the silk dress, the jewelry Rafael gave me, the face of a woman who is about to murder the man she loves to save the sister she can't live without.
"I need more time," I gasp, my breath coming in shallow hitches.
"Time is over. Forty-eight hours, Gia. Or the red dot hits zero. Get the codes. Give them to me or watch her die."
"I'll... I'll get them," I whisper, the words sounding like a death sentence. "I'll get you the rest of the verification. Just... don't touch her. Please."
"Don't disappoint me again," Salvatore says.
He nods to the driver. The door opens.
I stumble out, the cold air hitting my face like a slap. I stand there in the dark parking lot, my chest heaving, the world spinning around me. I walk back toward the side exit, my movements mechanical. I have to get back. I have to find Rafael.
I slip back into the club, the bass hitting me like a physical blow. I find the restroom and lock myself in a stall, leaning my forehead against the cold metal door. I stay there until my breathing slows. I fix my lipstick, the red stain looking like a smear of blood against my pale skin.
When I walk back into the salon, Rafael is waiting. He’s standing by the bar, his eyes scanning the crowd with a predator's focus until they land on me. The relief that flashes across his face—the raw, unguarded worry—is almost more than I can bear.
"You're late," he says, his hand already reaching for my waist the second I’m within range. He pulls me flush against his side, his thumb grazing my hip. "Twelve minutes, Gia. I was about to call in the air strike. Where the hell were you?"
"The line was long," I say, my voice steady, my sass a shield for the rot inside. "And I had to fix my lipstick. You’re very hard on my makeup, Rafael. I had to ensure I still looked like a 'Caruso' and not a disaster."
He laughs, a low, warm sound that vibrates through my shoulder, and pulls me even closer. He kisses my forehead, his lips lingering on my skin. "You could never look like a disaster. But you're right. I am hard on you. Maybe I’ll be even harder tonight, once we're home."
The heat in his eyes is a promise of everything I’m about to steal from him. I look at the glitter of the party, at the men he trusts, at the man who would die for me.
"Dance with me," I whisper, grabbing the lapels of his jacket. "I don't want to talk anymore. I just want to move."
"Whatever little Gia wants," he murmurs, leading me toward the floor.
As we move together, his hand firm on my back and his eyes locked on mine, I realize that the clock hasn't just hit zero for Laura. It’s hit zero for us. I’m dancing with a dead man, and I’m the one who led him to the gallows.