Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Bella
My burned hands stung with a deep, relentless ache. Usually, I could handle a burn. I'd worked in kitchens long enough to know that kind of pain. But whatever poison was in that water took the pain to the next level, and I had to fight tears every time I flexed my fingers.
My hip throbbed like hell, too. When I'd slammed into the cart's edge, I'd hit the exact spot where Vincenzo had stabbed me.
The wound had barely begun to heal, and now with every step through this cold water, my underwear elastic scraped across the gash like deliberate torture.
That's why I'd been wearing dresses for the past month instead of jeans.
Anything with a waistband was agony. Each movement reminded me of what he'd done to me—and what I'd done to him.
I had to let go of Declan's hand. As much as I wanted his touch in this suffocating darkness, I needed both arms for balance. I stretched them out like a tightrope walker, stumbling along the submerged tracks and praying I wouldn't take a wrong step and plunge face-first back into that foul water.
“You okay?” Declan asked.
“Still breathing,” I managed, though my voice sounded thin even to my own ears.
He let out a soft groan. “I know you are, Bella, but are you actually okay?”
I turned toward where his voice had come from, wishing I could see his face.
See those light blue eyes that always seemed to soften when they landed on me, that hint of warmth that made me worry just a fraction less.
“I'm okay, I guess. Just... just scared.” The last word cracked as it left my throat.
“I know,” he said gently. “We'll get through this.”
I wanted to believe him with everything I had. But I knew the men hunting us. I'd seen what they were capable of, heard the stories whispered in Vincenzo's circles about Rocco and Pike. They didn't give up. They didn't show mercy.
Why hadn't Declan asked me who they were? Most people would’ve demanded to know why armed killers were trying to murder me, but he just kept trying to save me without asking for explanations.
The thought made my chest ache.
With each careful step, the water gradually became shallower, and finally, we stepped onto dry ground. Relief flooded through me so intensely that I almost collapsed right there, but Declan kept moving forward with one hand trailing along the tunnel wall, and I forced myself to follow.
“Can we use the lighter now?” I asked, desperate for even the smallest flicker of light.
“Not yet. The fumes are still too strong.”
“Right. Good thinking.” How was he staying so calm? I could barely think straight. Yet he moved with purpose, as if he knew what he was doing.
“Hey, there's a platform here,” he said. “Watch your step.”
I inched forward until my shin bumped against wood. “What is it?”
“Looks like an old sorting bench or work area.”
“I can't see anything,” I said, attempting a weak joke as I carefully climbed up onto the platform.
“Ha ha.” His tone was so relaxed that the tightness in my chest loosened slightly.
Feeling around in the darkness, I found a table scattered with tools. A metal hammer felt cold against my burned palm, and its surface bubbled with rust. Everything I touched was coated in dust so thick it felt like fur under my fingertips. How long had this place been abandoned?
“This'll do,” Declan said close by. “Let's rest against this wall for a bit.” He pressed his hand to my shoulder. “This way.”
My fingers trailed over rough timber until I found the wall. It surprised me that the wall was smooth and cool against my palms, almost clay-like. I had expected it to be rocky and jagged.
“We'll sit here. You okay?” he asked again.
“Yes,” I lied. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest as I sank onto the platform.
I settled with my back against the wall, pulled my knees up, and tugged my wet dress over my legs.
I pressed my burned palms to the cool fabric, and although it was soothing, I knew the damage had been done.
Blisters swelled on my thumbs, and my palms throbbed with a deep, relentless ache.
By tomorrow, I probably wouldn't be able to use my hands at all.
If I survived the day, that is.
Declan lowered himself beside me with a soft grunt he couldn't quite suppress. The sound was barely audible, but it told me everything. The mine groaned around us, the timbers creaking and settling like the mountain itself was adjusting to our presence in its belly.
“You're hurt, aren't you?” I wanted to reach for him in the darkness and make sure he was okay, the way he kept checking on me.
“I'm fine.”
“Declan.” I turned toward where I thought his face would be, frustration rising in my throat. “I've heard you moan at least three times. Don't lie to me.”
“I'm fine, Bella.”
But he wasn't. I could hear it in the careful way he breathed, the slight hitch when he moved. He was lying, probably trying to be strong for me. He'd already proven how strong he was and how brave. He didn't need to hide his pain from me.
The adrenaline that had kept me moving drained away all at once, and bone-deep exhaustion and guilt crushed me so much I could barely breathe under its weight.
This was my fault. All of it.
We sat in near silence, broken only by the steady drip of water somewhere in the distance. Without that sound, it would be easy to believe we'd been launched into outer space.
I waited for Declan to ask about the men chasing us. About why someone would hunt me halfway across the world to kill me. To kill us.
But he didn't ask.
The silence stretched between us like a living thing, and slowly, I realized he wasn't going to. He'd risked his life for me. He was still risking his life, yet he wasn’t demanding answers.
Vincenzo would have grabbed my face, fingers digging into my jaw, and forced me to look at him while he interrogated every detail from me. He would have told me it was my fault, that I'd brought this punishment on myself.
He would have shown me how much he controlled me.
That thought convinced me that I had to tell Declan.
Not because he was forcing me or manipulating me into it.
I'd sworn to myself I'd never tell another soul what I'd done.
But after everything he'd done, and the way he'd thrown himself between those killers and me, Declan deserved the truth.
And he needed to know exactly what kind of men were hunting us.
“Declan?” My voice came out broken, and I swallowed hard.
“Yeah?” He shifted slightly. “You okay?”
I pulled my knees closer to my chest, and as I wrapped my arms around them, sharp pain stung my burned palms. “I need to tell you why those men are after me.”
“Because they're fucking assholes.” He shifted beside me.
I welcomed the warmth of his body against mine because once I told him what I'd done, he'd pull away. Hell, he'd probably wonder why the hell he was trying to save me. A half-laugh, half-sob escaped me. “Yes, that's true. But they have a reason. A good reason.”
“Bullshit.” His voice went hard. “There's never a good reason to shoot an unarmed woman.”
“There is.” My throat felt like it was closing, the words struggling to get past the tightness. “That's why I need to tell you.”
“Doesn't matter what you say, those bastards—”
“I murdered someone,” I blurted out.
The words hung in the darkness between us, sharp, terrible, and true.
Declan went completely still beside me. I wished I could see his face, read his expression, to know what he was thinking. But maybe the darkness was better. Maybe it was easier to confess like this, without having to watch his opinion of me change in real time.
How do I explain this? Where do I even start?
“Bella,” he said finally, and the gentleness in his tone made it clear he didn't believe me.
I squeezed my eyes shut even though it made no difference in the pitch black. I forced my mind back to Sicily, to that night, and made myself face what I'd done.
“I'm sure you had—”
“I grew up in Sicily,” I interrupted, needing to get this out before I lost my nerve.
“My father owned a shipping company. My mom was a baker. She was originally from Australia, which is why she insisted I keep my Australian passport up to date. She died of stomach cancer when I was fifteen.” The words caught in my throat, the old grief still raw even after all these years.
“Oh God, Bella. I'm so sorry.” The softness in his voice nearly broke me.
“A year before her death, my father was murdered.”
“Jesus,” he breathed as he tensed beside me.
“It was a long time before I learned why.” I pressed my burned palms against my knees and used the pain as a focus point.
“My Aunt Madonna raised me after that. She was Uncle Paolo's wife. I tried to be just a normal kid.” A broken laugh escaped me.
“Normal was hard when everyone in our small town knew I was the orphan girl whose parents had both died too young.”
Declan reached for my hands in the darkness, but I slipped my fingers away from his. I needed to get this out. He needed to know exactly who I was—what I was—before he touched me again.
“When I was eighteen, I met Vincenzo Falcone.” Even saying his name made my stomach turn. “He owned the restaurant where I worked. I was a trainee chef. He was charming. Sophisticated. Worldly. He made me feel alive again after years of battling with grief.”
Declan was so still I could barely hear him breathing.
“We fell in love. Or at least, I thought we did.” Bitterness laced my voice. “We got engaged when I was twenty-three. The wedding was supposed to be next month, actually.” My voice went flat, emotionless. “Turns out Vincenzo was in the mafia.”
“Bloody hell,” Declan breathed.