25. Audra
The door opens again, and everything in me tenses, but it's not more men. It's a woman. She walks in like a force of nature, green eyes scanning the area until they land on me. And then everything else disappears.
She comes straight for me. No hesitation. No fear.
"I don't know what that brute did or said to you," she starts, jerking her chin towards Gabe without even looking at him, "but if you're here against your will, you tell me."
Her finger snaps toward the man behind her. "And I'll have him take care of it."
The other man who came in with Gabe doesn't even blink. Just watches. Calm and lethal.
"He'll beat him to a pulp if he has to," she adds, like she's discussing the weather.
My eyes flick between them, trying to keep up.
"And I'll take you somewhere safe," she continues, softer now, but no less firm.
Then she straightens slightly, like she's remembering her manners. "I'm Jenna, by the way," another quick point at the man, "his wife. Massimo."
The man inclines his head just enough to count as acknowledgment. I stare at them. At her. I don't know exactly who she is. She looks vaguely familiar, but Massimo? I know for sure who he is. He's the head of the mob in Vegas. The big boss. Massimo Manetti.
Startled, I look at Gabe for some guidance, but he stoically avoids looking at me. My throat tightens. "I… I'm not being held here," I manage.
My voice sounds smaller than I want it to. Jenna doesn't move right away. Doesn't relax. She studies me like she's trying to see past the words, past the surface. Like she's deciding whether I'm telling the truth… or if I just don't know it yet.
Jenna's eyes don't leave mine. Not even for a second.
"We can go into another room," she offers. "If that makes you feel better." She tilts her head slightly, already adjusting the plan. "Or Massimo can take Gabe outside." She pauses as if thinking of something else, then adds decisively, "Actually, Massimo, take Gabe for a walk."
My stomach drops. I may not know much about their world, but I know enough to understand that taking someone for a walk doesn't usually end well.
"No—no," I rush out, pushing myself up a little too quickly.
"Really. It's okay." My gaze flicks to Gabe for a second, who stoically refuses to meet my eyes, before I force it back to her.
"He… he saved me," I add, feeling the familiar feeling of grief wash over me.
"He's protecting me. From the men who…" My throat tightens. "…killed my husband."
Everything about Jenna changes. The fire is still there, but it shifts. Softens.
"Oh, honey…" she murmurs, closing the distance between us in an instant. Her arm comes around my shoulders, warm and steady, guiding me gently toward the couch.
"I'm so sorry." The warmth that emanates from her is genuine. "That's… God, that's terrible." She sits with me, not letting go. "Do you want to talk about it?"
A pointed cough cuts through the moment. "Do you still want me to take Gabe for a walk?" Massimo asks, completely serious.
Gabe makes a low, disgusted sound somewhere behind me. Massimo just laughs. I blink, caught between confusion and something dangerously close to hysteria. Gabe moves past us toward the bar like none of this concerns him in the slightest.
"Drinks?" he asks, already reaching for a bottle.
"I heard voices—" Mom pops her head out, then freezes mid-step. Her eyes dart from Massimo to Gabe, then to Jenna, clearly trying to piece together who's who. "Are we… are we being kidnapped again?"
Gabe snorts from the bar. Massimo arches a brow, unimpressed.
Jenna lets out a short laugh. "No, ma'am. Not today."
Mom steps fully into the room, still clutching her phone like it might save her life. "Okay, because last time nobody told me anything and I had to hide in the bathroom for twenty minutes."
"That was not necessary," Gabe mutters, pouring a drink.
"There were guns!" Stacy shoots back.
"There are always guns," Gabe replies dryly.
That does not seem to comfort her.
She looks at me instead. "Are you okay?"
I nod, a little dazed. "Yeah. I'm okay."
Mom's gaze flicks back to the others, still wary. "And… these are?"
Jenna smiles, all charm now, like she didn't just threaten violence two seconds ago. "Friends."
Massimo says nothing. Just watches. Gabe hands her a glass without asking. "Drink."
Mom shakes her head. "My drinking days are over. Unfortunately. It'll just make my liver flare up, upset my stomach, and don't get me started on my ulcers."
Something darts by me. Furry. Fast. Hissing.
"Mr. Fluffball!" Mom gasps. "Oh no!"
For someone who's always sick, she moves fast, lunging forward, scooping the cat up mid-escape. He twists in her arms, hissing like a tiny demon as she carries him back toward her room.
"Nice cat," Jenna remarks dryly.
I snort. "Oh, you don't know the half of it."
The door clicks shut behind her. Silence settles for a second, strange, but lighter now, and I realize I just snorted. I feel it before I understand it. Something is loosening inside me. Normal. Or… close enough.
I take the glass Gabe offers me. "Thank you."
My eyes shift to Jenna. "And thank you. For coming to my rescue."
Jenna grabs a drink for herself, lifts it slightly toward mine. "Anytime."
Our glasses clink. She studies me for a beat, then adds, softer this time, "If you ever need it."
From the corner of my eye, I notice Gabe and Massimo talking to someone on the phone. Massimo looks pissed, and Gabe doesn't look much happier. I strain my ears, but all I hear is: "Fucker… Salazar… not coming."
I have no idea what it means, but I'm pretty sure Salazar just dug his own grave.
A week later…
The sky is too bright for a day like this. It shouldn't be. It should be gray. Clouded. Heavy. Something that matches the weight in my chest. Instead, the sun is out. Warm. Indifferent. Like the world didn't get the memo.
I stand in front of the mirror for a long time before I leave.
The simple black dress is loose on me. I must have lost weight since…
since Pete was killed. But it's the only black dress I have, and it's appropriate.
Like there's a rulebook somewhere for this kind of thing.
What to wear when your husband gets murdered.
My hands smooth over the fabric again. And again.
Pointless. I still don't recognize the woman staring back at me.
Her face is pale. Too pale. The bruises are faintly visible beneath makeup that doesn't quite do its job.
Her eyes, hell, her eyes look older. Colder.
Like something burned through them and left something else behind.
Pete is gone. The thought lands differently now. Not like a shock. Not like a scream. Just… a fact. A permanent one.
Mom is talking behind me. How sorry she is that she can't go, but she's feeling off again.
That this is too much for her. I barely hear her, her voice is distant, muted.
Like I'm underwater. I want to tell her that's okay, that I understand, but for once the lie won't come out of my mouth, because the truth is I don't. I don't understand how she can stay home when she knows I'm hurting.
Why she can't just be there for me. For once.
Another part of me is almost relieved that she's not coming, because it means I can focus on Pete and myself.
I have no doubt she would find a way to make the funeral about herself.
The church is already filling when we arrive. People turn. Look at me. That soft, pitying look. The one I've seen before. Just never directed at me. I hate it. I hate all of it.
"Stay close," Gabe murmurs near me.
My hand rests lightly on his elbow as I walk down the aisle.
Appropriate. Pete and I never got to do this together.
We didn't have any money. We went to a small wedding chapel, paid our hundred dollars, and that was that.
Now, in death, I finally get to walk towards my husband.
Only, he's in a coffin. Every step feels deliberate.
Measured. Like if I go too fast, I'll break. Too slow, and I'll never make it.
The casket is already there. Overflowing with flowers, but not too much.
It's closed. Thank God. I don't think I could survive seeing him like that again.
I stop in front of it. For a second, everything goes quiet.
Completely. No voices. No movement. Just me.
And the reality of what's inside that box.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. My voice sounds small. Foreign. "I should have?—"
I stop. Because there are no words to finish the sentence.
No version of events where this ends differently.
I hold onto the edge of the casket. Tight.
Too tight. Because underneath the grief, it's still there.
That heat. That anger. That need. They killed him.
And they're still breathing. I turn my head to scan the room.
Faces. Strangers. Friends. People pretending to understand. People who have no idea.
Somewhere—out there—are the men who did this. And for the first time since all this started—I don't feel like I'm going to fall apart. I feel… steady. Because grief? Grief can drown you. But anger? Anger keeps you standing. And right now, it's the only thing holding me up.
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry." Annette's voice is soft, practiced. Polished. I turn toward her.
She steps closer, all black dress and careful sympathy, her hand coming to my arm.
"We all are," she adds, waving lightly behind her. I follow the gesture. The women from the party. Even the purse lady herself. Rows of them. They give discreet little waves. Tight smiles. Sad eyes. Curiosity, barely hidden behind compassion. I nod. Because that's what I'm supposed to do.
"I've tried calling you," Annette manages not to make it sound like an accusation.
"I know," I reply quietly, remembering staring at her name as it popped up on the screen and being unable to make myself answer. "I'm sorry. It's just been… a lot."