Chapter 23 Liana
We run down the dock, our footsteps pounding against concrete. Past towering shipping containers that cast long shadows. Away from Warehouse Twelve and the men inside.
My wrists are raw and bleeding, the pain sharp with every movement. My legs shake with exhaustion and leftover adrenaline.
But I don't stop running. Can't stop.
Behind us, I hear shouting—the Benedettis regrouping, deciding whether to follow us or cut their losses.
"This way!" Santino grabs my arm firmly, pulling me toward a black car parked in the shadows between two containers.
He opens the passenger door and shoves me inside. Then he's in the driver's seat, engine roaring to life. Tires screech as we peel away from the warehouse, the smell of burning rubber filling the air.
I twist in my seat, looking back through the rear window.
No one's following. Not yet, at least.
"Are they—"
"We're clear." Santino's hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his grip so tight I can see the tendons standing out. "For now."
I slump back against the seat as the reality of what just happened crashes over me. I start shaking uncontrollably.
The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving nothing but pain in its wake. Everything hurts—my wrists where the zip ties cut in, my shoulder where they threw me in the van, my head where someone hit me.
"Your father is with my men. A few blocks from here. We'll meet them—"
"What the fuck took you so long?"
The words come out before I can stop them, sharp and accusatory.
Santino glances at me quickly. "What?"
"I texted you hours ago." My voice is shaking now, trembling with more than just cold or shock. "I texted you when they were chasing me. Where were you?"
He doesn't answer right away. Just keeps driving, unable to look at me.
"I got your text,” he finally says.
"Then why didn't you come?"
Silence fills the car.
"Answer me!"
"I thought you were playing games!" He snaps, the words exploding out of him. "You've been playing games for weeks! Hot and cold! Push and pull! How was I supposed to know this time was actually different?"
The air leaves my lungs in a painful rush. "You... you got my text. And you didn't come."
"Not right away." His voice is tight with guilt.
"How long?" My hands are shaking so badly I have to clench them into fists. "How long did you wait before you even checked on me?"
"Three hours. Before I tried to contact you."
Three. Fucking. Hours.
I was tied to that chair, bleeding, terrified, completely alone. And he was doing nothing. Sitting somewhere safe, thinking I was manipulating him.
"I was kidnapped," I whisper. "I was dragged into a van and you—you just—"
"I didn't know!" His voice rises, defensive and raw. "You've been lying to me! About everything! How was I supposed to know the one time you actually needed me—"
"I told you I needed you!" I'm screaming now, all the fear and hurt pouring out. "I texted you! I said I was being followed! What part of that sounded like a game to you?"
"All of it! Because that's what you do!" He slams his hand on the steering wheel hard enough to make me flinch. "You manipulate! You play the victim! You create chaos! You—"
"I was a victim!" Tears are streaming down my face now, hot and unstoppable. "I was in danger and you left me there! I could have died!"
"But you didn't! You saved yourself! You clearly didn't need me at all!"
"Because I can’t depend on you!" The words tear out of my throat.
"You want to talk about not being able to depend on someone? Let's talk about the woman I just watched disarm a trained criminal. Take a hostage. Shoot someone in the kneecap without even blinking."
"That's not the same thing—"
"Isn't it?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "Because the woman I've been dating for weeks? She didn't know where the safety was on a gun. She waved it around my office like a child with a toy. She acted helpless and scared and stupid about everything."
I don't say anything, because what can I say?
"But tonight?" He continues relentlessly. "Tonight, I watched you move like a trained operative. You knew exactly what you were doing. Every move was calculated. Who the fuck are you, Liana?"
"Don't turn this around on me—"
"Answer the question!" He pulls the car over abruptly, stops in the middle of an empty street. Turns to face me fully. "Who are you? Because the woman I just saw back there? That's not the woman I've been with for the past month."
"You don't know me."
"Clearly!" His eyes are wild with hurt and confusion. "Tell me. Who are you really? What have you been doing? Why have you been lying to me about everything?"
"Why do you think?" I spit back, anger rising to cover the hurt. "You think I wanted this marriage? You think I wanted to hand over everything I've worked for to some man I barely know?"
"This was all fake? Everything between us."
"Not everything." The words slip out before I can stop them, before I can think better of it.
He stares at me, and I can see him trying to process that admission.
"Then what was real?" His voice is quieter now, more vulnerable. "Because I don't know anymore. I don't know what was you and what was the act."
Because I don't have an answer. I don't know either anymore.
"You left me there," I say finally, choosing the one truth I can hold onto. "That's what's real. When I actually needed you, you weren't there."
"And you've been manipulating me for weeks. Lying about who you are. That's what's real too."
We stare at each other across the center console, both breathing hard, both furious, both hurt in ways we can't quite articulate.
"Your wrists are bleeding," he says finally.
"I know." I look down at them—raw, torn, the skin shredded from hours in those zip ties.
He reaches into the glove box and pulls out a first aid kit. "Let me—"
"I'm fine." I push it away, not ready for him to touch me.
He sets it on the console between us anyway, the gesture somehow final. Santino pulls his phone out and makes a call. "We're two blocks south," he says to whoever answers. "We're coming to you now." He hangs up and starts driving again without another word.
We don't speak for the rest of the short drive.
The silence is somehow worse than the shouting, heavier and more painful.
Five minutes later, we pull up to a different warehouse, one that's clearly being used as a staging area. There are cars everywhere. Men—lots of them, heavily armed. And standing in the middle of it all, looking like he's aged ten years in one night, is my father.
"Papa!" I'm out of the car before it fully stops, stumbling toward him.
He catches me, holds me tight against his chest.
"Liana. My baby. Liana." His voice breaks on my name. “Are you hurt?”
I'm crying into his chest, can't stop. All the fear, the pain, the anger, the confusion—it all comes pouring out.
"I'm okay," I manage between sobs. "I'm okay, Papa."
"Let me see you." He pulls back gently, taking in my face with growing horror. My bloody wrists. The cut on my cheek. The bruises forming. "What did they do to you?"
"I'm fine. I was able to get the gun away from Roberto’s nephew and I got out. I'm—"
"You got out." His voice changes completely, goes cold and hard. He looks past me at Santino, who's just stepped out of the car. "She got herself out."
Santino stops walking, clearly reading the danger in my father's tone.
"Don Dominic—"
"Papa—" I start, but he holds up a hand.
"No." His voice is firm. "I agreed to this arrangement for one reason.
And only one reason. To protect you. To ensure you had someone capable of keeping you safe.
I thought Santino Marcello was that man.
" He turns back to Santino, and I can see the fury radiating from him.
"And what did you do? You left her. For hours.
While she was in danger. While she was being terrorized. "
"I came as soon as I realized—"
"Not when she called you. Not when she needed you." Papa's face is dark with rage. "She had to save herself. With a gun to her head. Because you weren't man enough to be there for her when she needed you."
Santino looks at the ground, unable to meet his eyes. "Don Dominic, I understand you're upset—"
"Upset?" Papa's voice drops to that deadly quiet tone again. "I trusted you with the most precious thing in my life. And you failed her. You failed our family."
"Papa, please—" I try again, though I'm not even sure what I'm asking for.
"The arrangement is off." Papa says it simply, with absolute finality. "The marriage. The alliance. All of it. It's done. It's over. I don’t want to ever see your face again."
Santino's head snaps up. "What?"
"You heard me clearly. This alliance was predicated on your ability to protect Liana.
You couldn't do that. There's no alliance now.
" His voice hardens further. "If she hadn't been smart enough and well-trained enough to save herself, she'd be dead right now.
And you want me to reward your failure with a marriage to my daughter? With control of my business?"
"We can work this out," Santino says, and I can hear the desperation creeping into his voice. "Don Dominic, please—"
"No." Papa puts his arm around me protectively. "We can't and we won’t. Liana is coming home with me. The engagement is over. And the Marcellos can find another family to ally with."
He starts walking me toward his car, his arm firm around my shoulders.
I look back at Santino.
He's standing there frozen, his face a mixture of shock and pain and anger.
Our eyes meet across the distance.
And I see it—the moment everything breaks for both of us. The moment we both realize what we’ve done.
"Liana—" he starts, taking a step forward.
But Papa's already opening the car door, helping me inside with gentle hands.
"We're done here," Papa says. "Stay the fuck away from my daughter."
Through the window, I watch Santino. Watch his face as he processes what just happened. Watch him realize it's over.
Papa gets in the driver's seat and starts the engine. As we pull away, I keep watching through the rear window.
Santino's still standing there in the same spot, not moving.
His crew surrounds him now, talking urgently. Probably trying to figure out what just happened, what this means for the alliance.
But he doesn't seem to hear them at all. He's just staring at our car. At me. Until we turn the corner and he disappears from view.
"You did well tonight," Papa says quietly into the silence. "I'm proud of you. You kept your head. Used your training."
I don't answer, because I can't find words. Because I don't feel proud. I don't feel victorious. I feel hollow. Empty.
I got what I wanted. The engagement is off. The marriage is cancelled. I won't have to hand over my birthright to a man who doesn't trust me.
I won.
So why does it feel like I just lost everything that matters?
"Let's get you home," Papa says gently. "Your mother is worried sick. She's been calling every five minutes."
Back to the Costa estate. Back to my old life, my old room, my old routines.
No wedding. No alliance. No Santino.
This is what I planned for from the very beginning. What I worked toward with every chaotic act. What I wanted more than anything.
I should be celebrating this victory.
Instead, I look down at my raw, bloody wrists and stare out the window at the city passing by in a blur.
I got exactly what I wanted.
And it hurts more than I ever imagined it could.