13. Audra
The next morning…
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the silence. Not the quiet of early morning. A different kind. Heavy. Still. My head feels fuzzy, like someone stuffed cotton between my thoughts. I blink slowly.
The ceiling above me is unfamiliar, smooth gray plaster with recessed lighting. The bed beneath me is enormous, the sheets cool and impossibly soft against my skin. I push myself up slightly. The room is immaculate. Masculine. Luxurious.
Dark wood furniture. Clean lines. Expensive-looking art on the walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows with sunlight bleeding through where the curtains left small spaces. What the hell?
My lips hurt. My face hurts. A dull headache throbs behind my eyes. Why am I here? Where is here? My mind tries to put pieces together, but everything feels sluggish. Slow. Then I remember. The bitter taste of Xanax. I took one last night. No. Two.
After—
Pete.
The memory slams into me like a truck. Pete, tied to the chair.
Blood. His hands. The gunshot. The pain hits so suddenly that it steals the air straight out of my lungs.
My chest seizes. My throat locks tight. I try to take a breath in, but nothing happens.
Only a strangled sound escapes me. Hot tears spill down my face as panic surges through my body.
Because he's gone. Pete is gone. And I loved him. I did love him. Not the way I thought I was supposed to. Not the way he deserved. But it was real. It was something.
And now he's just… gone. Torn out of my life before I could fix it. Before I could leave. Before I could even understand what I was feeling. The guilt crashes in right behind it, sharp and merciless. Part of me had already been walking away. And now I never will.
The door bursts open.
"Audra?"
The stranger. Again.
He crosses the room in two long strides. For a moment, I can't even remember why he's here. Why he looks so familiar. All my mind can do is repeat my dead husband's name.
Pete!
The thought explodes inside my head, and my chest tightens even more. I gasp desperately for air that won't come. The man grabs my shoulders and pulls me up and against him.
"Easy there." His voice is as low as it was at the ball. Why is he here? "Easy."
I stare at him, terrified. I'm going to die. I can't breathe. My fingers claw into his shirt.
"Hey," he coaches softly. "Look at me."
His hands cup my face, forcing my eyes up to his icy blue ones. Calm. Too calm.
"Take a deep breath in," he demonstrates. His chest rises. Then falls. "And out."
My throat is still locked tight. The knot won't release. I know I'm going to pass out. All I can do is let it happen. Accept it.
In.
Out.
His hand rubs slow circles on my back.
"Good," he murmurs. "Again."
My chest spasms. Then, finally, air. A shaky breath slips past the knot in my throat. Relief floods through my lungs. My throat loosens slightly.
"Good," he repeats, quieter now. "Now out."
I follow his breathing.
In.
Out.
My hands still clutch his shirt like a lifeline. The room slowly stops spinning.
"Good," he murmurs. "Good girl."
I breathe again. And again, against my scratchy throat. Until a coughing fit rakes my body. The man immediately leans closer, and his expression tightens with concern.
"Let me get you some water." Warily, he rises. "You good?"
I nod weakly, still trying to pull air into my lungs without my chest locking up again. He releases me slowly and moves across the room. Towards a small bar area in the corner, dark wood, crystal glasses, a row of expensive bottles that probably cost more than my car.
He grabs a bottle of water from a cabinet that doubles as a fridge and twists the cap open. While he moves, the fog in my head begins to thin. Filtering through the haze are memories, images. Slow at first. Then faster.
The Mexicans.
The warehouse.
Pete, tied to the chair.
My stomach twists violently. They killed him! They were going to kill me, too. I remember the gun. The bald man. The door crashing open. Gunfire. Men shouting. Bodies dropping. So many bodies.
My hands begin to shake.
The stranger returns and presses the bottle into my hand. "Here."
I take it, my fingers tremble slightly, and I sip carefully, lest I choke on the water. The coolness of the liquid feels incredible on my throat. I lower the bottle and look at him. "Who are you?"
He studies me for a second before answering. "Gabe. Gabriel D'Amato."
The name resonates with me. I've heard it before. Not in social circles. No, on the news and not the good kind. Casino owner. Mob ties. What do they say, from the frying pan into the fire? That's what this feels like.
"You're safe here," he continues calmly. "I won't let anything happen to you."
The strange thing is… I believe him. Mob ties or not. I don't know why. But I do. Another memory suddenly slams into place. The gun. My eyes widen. "I shot you."
He shakes his head without looking away from me. "Just a scratch. Don't worry about it."
Of course I worry about it. How could I not? I freaking shot him. Him. A mafia boss. "You were bleeding."
He shrugs. "I've had worse." Then one corner of his mouth lifts faintly. "Honestly, of all the times I've been shot…" He glances back at me. "This one will probably be my favorite scar."
I stare at him. That is a very strange thing to say. As strange as this conversation, as strange as this place. I drink more water just to have something to do other than stare at him. Or think about Pete and that warehouse.
The silence stretches between us. My head still feels like it's wrapped in cotton, but the fog is lifting now. Slowly. Reluctantly.
"You saved me," I finally bring out. The words sound distant, like they belong to someone else. My eyes narrow slightly as another memory surfaces. "You were at the police station."
He nods once. "Yes."
"And the ball."
Another nod. "Yes."
"How did you know?—"
The question dies on my lips. Something inside me stops it before it fully forms. A quiet little voice in the back of my mind whispers that I have enough to deal with right now.
That whatever explanation Gabriel D'Amato might give me will only add more confusion to a world that already feels like it's falling apart.
I lean back into the pillows and run a hand over my face.
My skin still hurts where I was hit. My lips sting.
"Pete." The name echoes through my chest like a hollow bell.
"Yeah," Gabriel mutters quietly. "I'm sorry about that."
His voice is low. Flat. I glance at him briefly. He doesn't sound very sorry. But I'm too exhausted to care. Too tired to pick that fight. Too tired for anything. I push myself upright again, forcing my brain to keep moving.
Something else enters my head, and I sit up. "The cops." My voice sounds rough. "I probably need to talk to the cops."
"My lawyer is handling that," Gabe replies calmly.
I blink at him. "Your lawyer?"
The room tilts slightly. I fall back against the pillows again.
This is just too much. All of it. My head throbs.
I need another Xanax. Too many thoughts.
Too many memories trying to push their way back into my head.
There are things I need to do. Things I don't yet understand.
My fingers tighten around the water bottle.
Pete is dead. He was killed. Shot in front of me. No matter what this man says, I need to talk to the cops. Make sure the bald guy isn't the only one… shit, Mom.
"My mother," I press out, already swinging my legs over the bed. I need to get my mother.
"She's fine. Safe." Gabe assures me. "She's just in the other room."
"Safe? Here?" I bury my face in my hands, rub hard like that can get the remaining fog out. My mom is here?
Gabe holds out his hand. "You want to see her?"
I nod numbly. Without thinking, I put my hand in his and let him pull me to a stand. Realizing too late that I'm wearing… my favorite sweatpants and shirt. Yesterday, when… when they took me, I was still in scrubs. I stare at Gabe.
"Here, can you walk?" He seems so… courteous.
Did Mom put me in these clothes?
He leads me out of the bedroom. The hallway alone tells me this place is enormous.
Soft lighting glows from recessed panels in the ceiling.
Dark wood floors stretch beneath our feet, covered in thick rugs that swallow every step.
When we step into the main living area, I stop. The room is… breathtaking.
Leather couches the size of small cars sit around a low glass table. The walls are mostly windows—floor to ceiling—and the city spreads out below like a sea of glittering lights. My stomach flips. We're high up. Really high up. A casino, maybe? One of the big ones on the Strip.
"Audra!"
My mother's voice cuts through the room. She jumps up from the couch and rushes toward me. "I was so worried, sweetheart! I've been all alone here, imagining the worst. My heart's been fluttering all day."
Before I can even answer, she continues breathlessly, "Did you hear?" she blurts out, grabbing my arms. "Pete is dead. He was killed."
The words hit me again like a punch to the chest. I want to collapse into her arms. I want to bury my face against her shoulder and cry like a child. But before I can, Mom breaks down.
"Oh, my poor, poor Pete!" Her thin body shakes with sobs. "What is happening?"
Up close, she feels so fragile. All bones and trembling hands. I swallow hard and guide her gently back to the couch.
"Mom," I murmur.
I help her sit down. She clutches my hand as tears keep spilling down her face. "Oh, Pete," she cries. "My poor Pete."
Then she looks up at me. Really looks at me. Her eyes fill with even more tears.
"And you." She cups my cheek with shaking fingers. "My poor baby." Her voice softens. "How are you holding up?"
I force a small nod. "I'm okay, Mom."