CHAPTER 22
FIORELLA P.O.V.
My lungs are completely wrecked. The thin mountain air feels like inhaling crushed glass, and every frantic breath I drag in only burns worse.
I’m shivering so violently my teeth chatter hard enough to clip my tongue, filling my mouth with the sharp, metallic taste of my own blood.
My silk slip, which was already a catastrophic joke of a garment hours ago, is now just a damp, filthy rag clinging to my frozen skin.
Angelo doesn't even look winded, just completely feral.
His face is a mask of grim focus as he scans the mist-shrouded tree line.
He smells heavily of gun oil, sweat, and stale adrenaline, a scent that is rapidly becoming the only aesthetic I actually trust. We reach the side of a dilapidated stone shepherd's hut.
Without hesitating, Angelo kicks the rotting wooden door open, his gun drawn, sweeping the pitch-black interior in smooth, tactical arcs before his free hand locks onto my arm and drags me over the threshold.
"Inside. Now," he snaps.
"I'm—"
"Don't make a sound. The wind carries voices up here," he mutters, shoving the door shut behind us.
The external cold is an immediate, deadly threat, but the sheer paranoia of the 'Ndrangheta patrols tracking our scent through the fog is what’s actually suffocating me.
The second the door is closed, my left leg just absolutely gives out.
No warning, just a total physical system failure.
I slide down the rough stone wall, the grit of dirt scraping my palms. I'm crashing.
Days of high-stress evasion, getting shot at, running through mud—my body is finally screaming that it's done.
Angelo drops a rusted iron bar into place across the door with a heavy, final clang.
He turns, his massive shadow towering over me in the slivers of silver moonlight bleeding through the cracked roof.
Before the back of my skull can crack against the hard dirt floor, Angelo dives, his large, calloused hand catching my head, cushioning the impact with terrifying, unexpected gentleness.
"Stay with me, Fiorella. Don't you dare close your eyes," he orders, his voice rough.
"I can't fucking feel my legs," I whisper, my jaw vibrating.
"I've got you. Breathe."
He moves away with that predatory, effortless grace of his, completely ignoring the fact that his shoulder is definitely bleeding again.
He pulls a single match from his coat pocket and strikes it.
The sudden flame flares, throwing long, grotesque, dancing shadows against the dry rot of the walls.
He circles the tiny, suffocating space, checking for holes, animal nests, or unwelcome company.
His boot catches an old, rusted bucket on the floor.
The hollow thrum echoes through the small space like a gunshot.
We both completely freeze for a heartbeat, staring at the door.
Nothing. Just the wind whistling through the cracks.
The match burns down to his fingertips and dies. "Empty. For now," he says, his voice a low rumble in the sudden, oppressive darkness. "We stay in the dark. No fire."
"I'm going to freeze to death, Angelo."
"No, you aren't." He’s suddenly kneeling right between my sprawled legs. Working entirely by touch, his hands lock onto my ankle. I flinch, a sharp hiss escaping my teeth as he unpeels the muddy, blood-soaked rags from my injured foot. It’s pure agony.
The sharp sting of the freezing air hitting my open wounds makes my stomach turn over.
I hear the harsh tear of fabric. He’s using his teeth to rip a strip from the bottom of his own damn shirt. I dig my fingernails right into the freezing dirt floor, fighting the urge to kick him in the face as he presses the makeshift bandage against the deep cuts on my sole.
"Bite your lip if you have to, but don't scream," he warns, applying brutal pressure.
"Fuck you," I gasp, my entire body rigid.
"You're tougher than you look, Silvestri."
He ties it off, and I realize with a twisted sort of clarity that he’s marking me.
Binding me up in pieces of his own clothes.
Layer by layer. I reach out in the dark, my fingers trembling but determined, and lock my hand around his thick wrist. He stiffens instantly, his gaze snapping to mine in the gloom.
I can barely see his face, but I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the fresh copper tang of blood seeping through his shirt.
I pull him closer. I am absolutely done playing the helpless hostage. "You're bleeding again, Angelo. Sit."
He resists for a second, his massive frame rigid.
He wants to be the invincible monster. Admitting he needs my help is a vibe check he isn't ready for.
I don't give a shit. I reach out and slowly unbutton the top of his shirt, my cold fingers brushing against the burning, feverish skin of his chest. His breath audibly hitches.
"I'm not doing this out of kindness," I tell him, my voice flat. "I'm doing it because you can't drive us out of here if you're dead."
He finally relents, slumping slightly against the stone wall beside me.
I take the last two ounces of clear alcohol from his flask and pour it onto a relatively clean piece of my ruined slip.
I lean into his space, dabbing at the gnarly, reopened wound on his shoulder.
He watches my face with this terrifying, unblinking hunger.
His large hand comes to rest on the dirt floor right beside my hip.
A drop of icy water falls from the cracked ceiling, landing perfectly on his collarbone.
Without thinking, I wipe it away with my thumb, smearing it into his skin.
"Does it hurt?" I ask, staring at the mapped-out violence of the scars covering his torso.
"Only when you stop looking at me like that," he rasps.
I let my hands linger on his broad shoulders, my thumbs tracing the ragged edges of the fresh bandages.
The silence in this mountain hut is absolute.
Without the roar of the car engine or the crack of gunfire, the reality of my current situation hits me like a freight train.
I have literally killed a man for him. I have run from my own blood.
Look at my hands—the manicures are gone, replaced by caked mud and dried blood under my fingernails, and the unhinged part is I don't even want to wash it off.
I don't miss my life. I don't miss the gilded cage of the Silvestri estate.
"It’s so quiet," I say, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.
"The world thinks we're already dead, Fiorella. Up here, it’s true."
He shifts, reaching into his heavy tactical coat, and pulls out the one thing that ruins everything.
The Silvestri Ledger. The blood-stained leather book that cost so many lives.
I actually recoil, my back pressing hard against the stone wall.
Angelo clicks on a tiny red tactical penlight.
The sudden crimson glow washes over his face, turning his oil-slick eyes into burning coals and making the tiny room look like a literal level of hell.
He lays the heavy book in the dirt between us and flips it open. The smell of old vellum and dried, coppery blood fills the space. His thick finger taps a column of names on the page. Men, women. Traded. Disappeared. Sold out for port access and political leverage.
"Look at it. Really look at it," he demands, his voice a low, gravelly weapon. "This is your brother’s handwriting, isn't it?"
My eyes scan the neat, cursive lines. I recognize Alessio's loops.
I recognize the names of rival family members who supposedly 'fled the country.
' My hand starts to shake. I reach out to touch the page, my index finger smearing a drop of dried, brown blood right over a name I know.
Angelo leans in close, his mouth right next to my ear.
The heat of him is a stark contrast to the ice in my veins.
"My mother was on that list. Did you know?" he asks quietly. The restraint in his voice is ten times more terrifying than when he yells. "Alessio didn't just kill them. He sold them."
Every single entry is a sin I am wearing by association.
My family name is a goddamn parasite. The absolute audacity of my brother, playing god in a tailored suit while I sat in the garden reading fashion magazines.
I violently shove the heavy ledger away, the book scraping through the dirt.
I look up at Angelo. The red light casts sharp shadows over his cheekbones.
He clicks the penlight off. We are plunged back into the silver-gray shadows.
He lunges forward, his large hand gripping my chin like a vice, tilting my face up so I have absolutely no choice but to meet his eyes. "What are you now, Fiorella? A Silvestri? Or just mine? The truth is a heavy thing to carry."
He is testing me. Looking for any trace of the pampered brat he snatched from the masquerade ball. If I hesitate, he might leave me up here to rot. But I don't care about surviving anymore. I care that he is the one asking the question.
I don't look away. My voice is a sharp blade of sound cutting right through the cold air. "I don't want to go back. There is nothing left for me there but corpses and lies."
His hand on my jaw tightens almost painfully. He stops breathing.
I lean forward, closing the distance until my forehead rests against his. We are sharing the exact same breath now. "I’m not a hostage anymore. You know that. Take the Silvestri name. Burn it. I want to be nothing to them."
He lets out a harsh sound, his iron control finally fracturing.
He slides his hand from my jaw to the back of my neck, his long fingers tangling painfully into my matted, dirty hair.
He jerks me just a fraction closer. "Say it again.
I want to hear the Silvestri name die in your throat.
" His chest heaves against mine. "If you say this, there is no turning back. I will never let you go."