CHAPTER 33
MARCELLO
I hadn’t slept in days.
Sleep had become a luxury I couldn’t afford—not when Lorenzo was still breathing, still scheming, still slipping through cracks I hadn’t sealed.
Isabella was easy. All it took was a doctored image, a whisper in the right ear, and a little graphic manipulation. That was enough to rattle her. For someone who spent years scheming to get into my pants, trying every dirty trick up her sleeve, she was surprisingly easy to manipulate.
I planted the seed of doubt, and she watered it with paranoia.
Fear fed by misinformation is a fragile thing. And hers cracked fast. She believed Giorgio—Lorenzo’s most loyal dog—had betrayed them. That part was easy.
Martin, an ex-mercenary, made Giorgio vanish like it was just another day. The bastard had a weakness—and Martin exploited it. Isabella lapped up the lie like Lorenzo’s loyal mutt—fed straight from my hand of deceit.
But I didn’t expect Lorenzo to leave her behind.
He didn’t even flinch. Five years together, and he left her to rot.
I didn’t expect him to cut her loose so fast. But maybe she was always disposable—like she was nothing.
Maybe that’s all she ever was to him—another body in his bed. Another name on his list.
The prison was buried in the Swiss Alps—off-grid, off-record. No village nearby. No animals. No life. Just stone, snow, and silence.
Two checkpoints guarded the mountain—one at the base, one at the peak. Each car had forty minutes to reach the next post. Miss the window, and they send in the cavalry.
I walked in with clearance from old friends. It helped—knowing the right people, in the right ranks, in the right corners of the world. Perks of supplying arms to governments all across the globe. Martin stayed close, surrendered his Glock at security, and clipped on a visitor tag.
I saw her through the glass, seated with handcuffs on, in the waiting area, with a security guard standing a few feet away.
She looked pale without layers of makeup. Her hair was a tangled mess. She was a far cry from the plastic beauty people once admired. In her raw state, she was despicable, almost ugly. Not because of her face. But because of what she’d done with it.
The bruise blooming at the corner of her mouth was a giveaway—she’d picked a fight, no doubt. She stood up in anticipation as I opened the door.
But as she laid her eyes on me, she slumped back in her chair, almost disappointed. Maybe she was hoping for it to be Lorenzo, but I knew that bastard all too well. Once someone was a liability, they were as good as dead.
“Look who’s here. Welcome to my humble abode,” Isabella said, gesturing around with mock grandeur.
I sat opposite her.
“You can take off the cuffs,” I spoke to the guard.
“Oh, how chivalrous. But I thought you’d like me in these,” she raised her hands above her head, pouting, as the guard unlocked the cuffs.
Her shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of pale skin.
“You know,” she said, leaning in, “we can ask them to leave us for a bit if you want some private time with me. I promise I won’t bite.”
My face remained inexpressive.
“I need his location. His business. Where he is now.” My voice was flat. Mechanical.
“Now, now, do you think I’ll rat him out?” she said, leaning back in her chair.
“He doesn’t give a fuck about you, Isabella. He never did. He discarded you at the first sign of trouble. Why do you think he sent you to Sophia alone?”
I studied her expression as it went from pleased to disbelief and a bit of sadness.
“He was waiting to throw you to the wolves. I’m sure someone else is already warming his bed.”
“Give me what I need, and I’ll make sure you live out your sentence with dignity. You know, there are some of them here from your camps.”
Her eyes went wide. She knew what that meant—death for her.
“He’ll come. He’ll get me out.”
“Who are you kidding? You and I both know Lorenzo doesn’t take back what he’s thrown out. You’re dead weight. You can either live in fear, waiting for someone to finish you off—or you can survive. Quietly. Comfortably. Forgotten.”
“He has plans for your girlfriend.”
I balled my fists hard till my knuckles went white. My breath stilled, and my jaw clenched.
“So… she is your girlfriend. Who would’ve thought the stone-hearted Marcello fell for a bouncing blob of fat. You really did a one-eighty.”
Her words were knives. Dull, but meant to wound.
“Watch your mouth, puttana,” Martin snapped.
I grunted towards him, a silent order not to interfere.
“The raids were just the tip of the iceberg. He was testing how much she could handle before she broke. He wanted to get to you through her. She had told him that she had nothing to do with you. You were just a holiday affair.”
She leaned in.
“Since she’s no longer in the picture and probably now wants nothing to do with you, we could maybe…” she said, stroking my hand.
I pulled away instantly.
“Enjoy your time in prison. Maybe you’ll live long enough to watch Lorenzo cut up and buried like the filth he is.”
I started to walk towards the door.
“Wait!” she called out, defeated. “I’ll cooperate.”
I smirked, nodding—denying her the satisfaction of seeing my face. Martin spoke to the guard in a low voice, instructing him.
With her intel, I’d pinpoint Lorenzo’s location. Drag him out of his hole. But first—I’d crush his empire to dust. Let him choke. Let him writhe in the ruins of his empire as I cut him down—piece by piece.
Walking out of the facility, the cold hit me like a blade. The mountains echoed an eerie sound. The wind howled like a hungry wolf. I lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, letting the nicotine send a rush through me and letting the smoke burn my lungs. The pain felt familiar.
We packed into the SUV and started down the winding mountain roads to civilisation. Santino seemed a little on edge.
“Spill it out.”
He hesitated and showed me his phone.
“There was an accident last week.”
I looked at him and then looked at the phone. A blurred picture of a mangled car against the parapet of the flyover. The car had been hit on the passenger side, and the airbags had been deployed.
A faint smear of red on the driver’s side airbag. Enough to suggest pain. From the outside, the car looked like a mangled corpse of metal and glass.
I looked at the picture in confusion, but somehow my heart started beating so fast I could hear it in my ears. Like a war drum. Like something was about to break. I furrowed my brows and looked at him.
He pinched out the picture, revealing an article.
Truck crashes into woman’s car late night. Driver flees.
My vision started to blur as my breath hitched.
“Who?”
Santino looked at me, eyes glassy, almost like he was about to cry. He swallowed hard. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. The winding road of the car was starting to make me nauseous—for the first time.
“Who?” I asked again, clenching my fists, voice almost roaring.
Santino swiped the screen. I stared at the screen, hands trembling. The air suddenly got thin, and I could barely gulp in breaths. I felt like I was drowning—only there was no water.
I took off my scarf.
“Stop… stop the car.” I managed to gasp out.
I fumbled with the door and crawled out, trying to take in deep breaths. Santino got out and tried to place a hand on my back. I brushed it off and collapsed beside the car. The floor beneath my feet shifted. Like the mountain itself had turned against me.
My legs gave out. My chest seized. I thought—this is it. This is how I die.
I could hear Martin cursing about the reception at this altitude. Santino crouched beside me. My vision was spotty. I tried to look out at the black of the mountains.
My chest kept tightening. I clenched my teeth and tried to suck in more air, desperately failing. But air refused to come.
I felt like I was falling into a deep void. I clawed at the walls of the void, but they collapsed inward—sucking me deeper, burying me alive.
Santino’s face appeared at the edge of the void.
“Marcello—”
I couldn’t hear him. I looked at him, face swimming into focus as he shook my shoulders. I suddenly felt the cold biting me.
“Devo vederla,” I whispered.
“Devo vederla… devo… ve… derla”
Darkness cradled me. This was the end. My end. There was so much I didn’t do, didn’t say to her.
My eyes opened barely, and I could hear a commotion. Then slipped back into the dark. The whir of helicopter blades. Flashing lights. A blur of motion. Then—darkness again.
I stood in a dark, cold room with stone walls. The ceiling arched high, tunnelling upward. A single skylight filtered grey light into the centre of the room.
Suddenly, a gurney appeared in the middle of the room. It hadn’t been there before. The skylight’s beam fell directly on the gurney. I walked slowly towards it. Empty.
I turned, scanning the shadows. I looked down again. This time—there was a body. My breath thinned. With trembling hands, I slowly lifted the crisp white cover.
Roxanne.
My forehead got sweaty and hands clammy. A bead of sweat slid down my temple, dropping onto her forehead. Blood oozed where my sweat touched her. Like guilt made flesh. Then blood spilled from her eyes. Her nose. Her mouth.
My breath became ragged. I could barely hold myself upright. I clutched the gurney, bent over, gripping my chest. I couldn’t breathe.
I could hear a voice in the distance saying, “Breathe in… 1, 2, 3, 4. Hold…”
My skull throbbed. A shooting pain erupted from my forehead to the crown—like my head was splitting down the middle into two.
I looked up at Roxanne’s lifeless body.
Her eyes flew open.
“You did this to me.”
I fell back into blackness.
I opened my eyes to white walls and a steady beep drilling into my skull. Santino sat texting in the corner.
“Oh, you’re awake. I’ll call the doctor.”
“What happened?” I asked as soon as he came back.
“You had a panic attack,” the doctor replied.
“A what? I’ve never had those.”
“It can be triggered by stress, trauma or fear. It peaks fast—racing heart, shortness of breath, blackout. Like drowning in air,” the doctor explained briefly.
“I guess you went through all of it in one go.” Santino joked.
“You need to go easy on the stress.” The doctor interjected.
“I’ll be stress-free once he’s dead,” I muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry. Must be the meds.” I suddenly said.
Santino snickered behind the doctor.
“Get some rest. Take these when you feel it coming. And breathe. Your friend knows the drill.”
I stared at the pills the doctor held out. I didn’t move.
Ten seconds passed. He handed them to Santino and walked out.
“How long was I out?” I asked Santino.
“Over twenty-four hours.”
“Fuck.”
I looked down, cleared my throat. My voice was low. My eyes—hollow.
“Is she…”
I couldn’t get myself to speak the words. They stuck in my throat like glass.
Was she gone?
The room was cool. Snow settled outside. But I felt like I was burning—dragged through hell, skin first. It was scorching me from the inside.
“She’s okay. Left the hospital the next day. Just a minor scratch.”
Santino looked at me with an assuring nod. I shifted on my bed.
Minor.
I saw the open gash on her head.
I felt myself slipping again. Back into the hole. Back into the dark. Because even survival leaves scars. I shut my eyes tight, pressed my palms against them.
“Devo vederla,” I whispered.
Santino sighed. “Wheels roll up at 7 a.m. tomorrow.”
The rock on my chest lifted, but the ache didn’t leave. I turned my head towards the window. The sky outside was bruised—grey, heavy and indifferent.
Roxanne was alive. She was okay. But for a moment, she wasn’t. And in that moment, I shattered. I broke in places I didn’t know existed. The man who never flinched had cracked. The edge I lived on had dulled. And I didn’t know who I was without it.
My world collapsed inward. My body followed. I’d touched the edge of death, not because I was dying, but because I thought she had. And that changed everything.
I wasn’t the same man I was before her. I was wreckage now—splintered, raw. And all I wanted was to see her breathe.