Chapter 4 #2
“When? After Connor declares war? After someone gets killed trying to rescue her? After she—” He stops again, and this time I can hear real worry in his voice. “She wasn’t eating until you forced her, Leo. What happens if she tries to hurt herself? What happens if this situation breaks her?”
“She won’t,” I say with more certainty than I feel, looking at Emma on the monitor. She’s still curled up on the couch, her face hidden against her knees. “She’s stronger than that.”
Dante scoffs in disbelief. “You’ve known her for three days.”
“I’ve been watching her for six months.” The words come out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret the admission.
Dante goes very quiet. “Six months?” he asks in a deadly whisper.
I wince, hating my big fat fucking mouth. “I needed to know everything about her before—”
“Six months, Leo. You’ve been planning this for six months and you still don’t have an endgame?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Jesus Christ. This is worse than I thought.”
“I’ll figure it out,” I repeat, knowing it sounds weak.
“Figure it out fast.” Dante’s tone shifts back to business. “Because Connor’s not going to wait forever. And when he comes for his daughter—and he will come—you better have a plan for what happens next.”
He hangs up before I can respond.
I set the phone down and run my hands through my hair, frustration and a sliver of guilt warring in my chest.
Dante’s right, the bastard.
I’ve put us in an impossible situation with no clear way out, and every day Emma stays here makes it worse.
But I can’t let her go.
Not yet.
Not when Connor still needs to suffer more and understand what he took from my family.
Except when I look at Emma on the monitor, I’m not sure who’s suffering more.
My phone rings again and I groan when I see the caller ID.
Mamma.
I consider not answering, but that would just make things worse. Gianna Santoro has never accepted “I’ll call you back” as a valid excuse, and if I ignore her call, she’ll show up at the estate in person. Which would be…bad.
I answer. “Hi, Mamma.”
“Leonardo Giuseppe Santoro.” Her voice comes through the line like a whip crack, and I wince. Full name is never a good sign. “What in the name of god have you done?”
Why is it every time I talk to my mother I immediately feel like I’m five years old again? “I can explain—”
“You kidnapped a woman? At her wedding? In a church?” Each question gets progressively louder and I have to hold the phone slightly away from my ear. “Have I taught you nothing? Have you lost your mind completely?”
“Mamma, if you’ll just let me—”
“Let you what? Let you explain why you’ve decided to start a war with the Irish mob?
Valentina has called me because she’s worried you’re going to get yourself killed?
You want to try and explain why you thought it was acceptable to drag an innocent woman out of a cathedral like some kind of barbarian? ”
I wince. “She’s not innocent, she’s Connor Brennan’s daughter—”
“She’s twenty-four years old!” my mother shouts. “She’s a child, Leonardo! What did she do to you? What did she do to deserve this?”
“Nothing, but her father—”
“Her father killed Gabriel. Her father.” Mamma emphasizes each word like I’m particularly stupid. “Not her. She probably didn’t even know about it. And now you’ve dragged her into this mess?”
“It’s not—” I try to find words that will make this sound less terrible, but there aren’t any. “Connor needs to understand—”
“Connor Brennan is a bastard who deserves everything coming to him,” my mother interrupts. “But that girl? That girl did nothing wrong. And you’ve stolen her future, all to make a point to a man who probably doesn’t even care as much as you think he does.”
That last part hits harder than it should. “He cares,” I argue, because my entire plan hinges on Connor tearing the world apart for Emma. “She’s his daughter.”
“And you’re my son, but that doesn’t mean I agree with every stupid thing you do!” Mamma takes a breath, and when she speaks again, she’s quieter but somehow more cutting. “What would your father say if he were alive? What would Gabriel say?”
The mention of my brother feels like a knife between my ribs. “Mamma, don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t remind you that Gabriel was kind and gentle and would be horrified by what you’re doing?
Do I need to remind you that he wanted peace between the families, and he died trying to negotiate instead of fight?
” Her voice breaks slightly. “He wouldn’t want this, Leonardo.
He wouldn’t want you to hurt an innocent woman in his name. ”
“She’s fine,” I say, but it sounds hollow even to me. “She’s safe, she’s being taken care of—”
“She’s a prisoner! She’s locked in a room—oh yes, I know all about that, Leonardo—away from her family, probably scared out of her mind.
That’s not ‘fine,’ that’s torture!” Mamma pauses, and I can hear her trying to compose herself.
“I raised you better than this. I know I did. So what happened? When did my son—the one who studied architecture, who wanted to build beautiful things—become the kind of man who kidnaps women?”
“When Connor shot Gabriel in the head and left him to die,” I say quietly, my heart lodged in my throat. “That’s when.”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. When my mother speaks again, her voice is gentler but still firm. “I miss him too. Every single day. But this won’t bring him back, bambino. Revenge never brings them back. It just creates more pain, more suffering, more loss.”
“I know.” And I do know. I’ve known since the moment I locked Emma in that room and saw the fear in her eyes. But knowing doesn’t change anything.
“Then let her go,” my mother says. “Before this gets worse and someone else gets hurt. Let her go home to her family.”
I shake my head. “I can’t. Not yet.”
“Why not?” Mamma asks sharply.
“Because—” I stop, realizing I don’t have a good answer. Because Connor needs to suffer more? Because I spent five years planning my revenge and I’m not ready to admit it was a mistake? Because letting Emma go means admitting that Dante and my mother are right and I’m wrong? “I just can’t.”
My mother sighs, long and heavy. “Then at least treat her with dignity. Feed her properly, don’t threaten her, and give her some freedom to move around. If you’re going to make her a prisoner, at least don’t make her suffer more than necessary.”
I scowl, staring down at my desk. “I’m not trying to make her suffer. She’s the one who refused to eat.”
“I swear, if you were in front of me, I’d slap you. Of course she refused to eat! She’s terrified and angry and trying to maintain some sense of control!” Mamma’s exasperation is palpable. “Use your brain, Leonardo. What would you do in her position? Think about how scared she must be.”
I look at Emma on the monitor.
She’s moved to the window now, staring out at the gardens with one hand pressed against the glass.
From this angle I can see her face, and she looks…lost.
Young and scared and so far from the spitting fury who threw a fork at my head this morning.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell my mother.
“You’ll do more than think about it. You’ll figure out how to end this before it destroys you.” She pauses. “I love you, bambino. But right now, I’m very disappointed in you.”
The line goes dead.
I set the phone down and rest my head in my hands, my mother’s words echoing in my skull.
When did my son become the kind of man who kidnaps women?
Fair question.
I don’t like the answer.
I look back at the monitor and Emma’s still at the window, still staring out at freedom she can’t reach.
Her shoulders are shaking slightly and I realize with a jolt that she’s crying again.
Silent tears run down her face while she thinks no one is watching.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it?
Connor Brennan’s daughter, broken and suffering.
This is the revenge I spent five years planning, the justice I thought I deserved.
So why does it feel so fucking hollow?
I thought taking Emma would feel satisfying.
Righteous.
Like I was finally balancing the scales.
But all I feel is tired and conflicted and uncomfortably aware that Dante and my mother are right.
This isn’t justice.
This is just more violence perpetuating more violence, and the only person really suffering is a woman who had nothing to do with Gabriel’s death.
I’m about to turn away from the monitor as I don’t need to watch Emma cry and feel the guilt that comes with it when my phone rings again.
Dante. Again.
I answer with more irritation than I probably should. “What now?”
“We have a problem.” His voice is tight, urgent in a way that makes my spine straighten. “Someone’s trying to breach the south gate.”