CHAPTER 21
ANGELO P.O.V.
I slam the SUV into a lower gear. The engine screams like a dying pig as we chew up the jagged spine of the Madonie mountains.
The cabin stinks of stale tobacco and the ozone of the storm rolling in behind us.
I keep my foot heavy on the gas. The tires spit gravel over the edge into the black ravines below, creating a physical barrier of distance between us and the blood we left on the floor of that shack.
I need miles. I look down at the gear shift.
A single drop of blood has dried to a rust-colored speck on the plastic.
I flick it off with my pinky finger. A silent erasure. Gone.
"Don't look back, Fiorella," I say, my voice scraping out like sandpaper. "There’s nothing left there but a corpse. Keep your eyes on the horizon. The mountain doesn't care about your soul."
She’s practically catatonic in the passenger seat.
Just staring at her hands. Mechanically rubbing her palms against her bare thighs like she can scrape the top layer of skin off.
I watch her profile glow sickly green from the dashboard lights.
I know that hollow-eyed look. The crushing weight of a first kill.
It’s a fucking baptism. I should be worried she’s going to snap and become a liability, but all I feel is this twisted, greedy pride.
She put a bullet in one of her brother’s dogs to keep me breathing.
She’s permanently stained. One of us now.
The Silvestri princess choked to death in that shack and I’m the only one who got to watch the new version crawl out of the wreckage.
She picks at a loose silk thread on the hem of her ruined dress, winding it around her index finger until the tip turns white.
"You feel it, don't you?" I ask. "That hollow space in your chest? It doesn't go away. You just get used to the weight. Look at me, not your hands."
She doesn't move. I’m not asking. I let go of the steering wheel with my right hand and drop it heavy onto her bare upper thigh.
I clamp down hard enough to leave bruises.
My thumb digs right into the soft, pale meat under the silk edge.
I need her heart rate to spike. I need her present in this fucking vehicle, not trapped in her own head.
My knuckles graze the cold metal buckle of her seatbelt.
"Are you here with me, Fiorella?" I squeeze harder. "Focus on the pain. Focus on the grip. I won't let you drift off."
I expect her to flinch. To pull away like the spoiled mafia brat she used to be.
She doesn't. She lets out a long, shaky breath and drops her head back against the headrest. Her hand comes down over mine.
She actually presses my palm harder into her own leg.
Seeking out the violence to block out the guilt.
My jaw tightens. Her manicured nails dig straight into the back of my hand, leaving four little crescent moons in my skin.
The silence in the car shifts. It goes from tight to suffocating, heavy with a sick, dark dependency.
"Better?" I mutter. "Good girl. Stay right there. You’re not alone in the dark."
God, I could devour her right here on the leather. She’s starving for the exact thing that blew her life to pieces.
The road narrows out to a single lane carved right into the cliffside.
I snap my eyes back to the horizon. I check the rearview mirror every ten seconds, waiting for the twin beams of Alessio’s hit squad to cut through the dark.
Alessio will burn every tree on this mountain to find her.
He doesn't want her back; he wants to bury the witness.
I tap my fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel, a restless habit from my old trench days in Palermo.
The tires screech on a patch of loose shale.
A pitch-black abyss yawns to our right. Cold sweat cools on my forehead.
"They’re coming. I can feel the itch between my shoulders," I tell her. "We’re too exposed on this ridge. Check the glove box. See if there’s a map or a spare mag."
She pops the latch but finds nothing but old napkins and registration papers. The heater hums, blowing the smell of burning oil into my face. I need to strip away her last delusion.
"You’re a ghost to them now, Fiorella," I say flatly. "Alessio won't see a sister when he looks at you. He’ll see a liability. There is no 'after' this. There is only now."
I need to be her everything. Her home, her religion, her oxygen.
If she holds onto one shred of hope that she can go back to being a Silvestri, she’ll get us both killed.
I adjust the rearview mirror, angling it down just enough to catch her eyes in the reflection, forcing her to look at herself the way I see her.
I slide my hand up from her thigh, dragging it over the center console, and lock my fingers onto the nape of her neck.
I twist my grip in her tangled chestnut hair and squeeze.
I force her head to tilt back. My thumb sweeps along her jawline, brushing the purple bruise I left there a lifetime ago.
"You belong to the Ferraro name now," I growl. Her pulse hammers against her throat, thudding right against my palm. The dim dashboard light catches the honey-amber of her eyes. "I am the only thing standing between you and a shallow grave. Say it. Tell me you know who you belong to."
Before she can open her mouth, I spot it.
A mile up the ridge. Two sets of taillights glowing dull red in the dark.
My pupils blow wide. It’s a roadblock. Not local cops.
The cars are angled like a V, creating a perfect fucking kill zone.
Through the gloom, I catch the rhythmic orange flare of cigarettes from men standing in heavy tactical vests.
My hand hovers over the headlight dial like a trigger.
"Down," I snap. "Get your head down. Those aren't your brother's men. Don't move until I tell you."
I kill the headlights. I twist the wheel and ease the SUV into the shadow of a massive limestone overhang.
I let the diesel engine idle, ticking loud in the silence.
I grab the compact binoculars from the door pocket and press them to my face.
The cold metal bites my skin. The damp earth smell is suffocating.
I zoom in on the vests. 'Ndrangheta. The Calabrian syndicate.
Mainland trash standing deep in Silvestri territory acting like they hold the deed.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste copper.
"The Calabrians," I say, lowering the lenses. "What the fuck are they doing this far west? Alessio has let the wolves into the house. This isn't a kidnapping anymore. It's a land grab."
Alessio sold us out. He sold his own blood for a seat at the mainland table.
I can't turn back. I slam the shifter into four-wheel drive and cut the wheel sharp. We jump the asphalt and plunge down an overgrown logging trail right into the belly of the forest. I’m driving blind on instinct and a sliver of moonlight.
The SUV tilts at a thirty-degree angle, crawling over massive boulders and rotting logs.
The undercarriage slams into a rock with a screech of tearing metal that makes Fiorella jump out of her seat.
Pine needles crush under the tires, the smell choking the cabin.
"Hold on to something," I grit out over the violent jolting. "If we flip, crawl out my side. Keep your mouth shut and breathe through your nose."
Branches claw the side windows like desperate fingernails.
I’ll drive this piece of shit straight to hell before I let a mainlander put his hands on her.
The steering wheel fights me like a bucking horse.
My forearms burn, veins bulging against the rolled-up sleeves of my black shirt as I wrestle us away from the ravine edge.
The frame groans. Mud splashes loud up into the wheel wells.
I let go of the shifter and shove my right hand flat against Fiorella’s chest, pinning her hard into her seat to stop her from flying through the windshield.
Every time the car slams down, my thumb brushes the hollow of her throat.
Her heart is hammering like a jackhammer under my palm.
I like her like this. Terrified and relying on my brute strength just to stay in her fucking seat.
"I've got you," I tell her over the noise. "Don't look down. Look at me. Almost through the worst of it."
I shove the SUV deep into a thicket of cork trees and finally kill the engine.
The silence hits like a physical blow. The engine ticks as it cools.
The cabin smells like wet wool, dirt, and my own sweat.
Below us in the valley, the 'Ndrangheta spotlights sweep the dark, looking for the phantom noise they just lost. We’re in a pocket of pitch-black.
Just her and me in the belly of the beast. I wipe a layer of condensation off the side window with the side of my fist.
"Stay quiet," I murmur. "Even a whisper carries out here. They’ll give up in an hour. They think we’re still on the main road. Give me the bag from the back seat."
She reaches back and hands it over. I dig into the footwell of the bag and pull out the leather-bound ledger I snatched from the shack.
There’s a smear of dried blood on the cover.
The blood of the guy she shot. I flip it open.
The heavy paper crinkles. I click on my tactical flashlight, cupping my hand around the bulb so only a tiny sliver of harsh white light bleeds onto the pages.
"This is why they want us dead," I say, the anger bubbling up thick in my throat. The smell of old paper and copper rust fills the air. "Your brother isn't just a murderer, Fiorella. He’s a traitor. Read the names."
I tap a dirty finger against the columns. Port coordinates. Offshore bank accounts.