Chapter 28 Evi
EVI
The last of the guests are long since gone, and I watch from the doorway as the brothers say their goodbyes, Leo and Gio whisking their wives—and Gio’s son—away to their safe, ordinary, violence-free lives. God, how I envy them tonight.
Miko and Anika follow a second later, heading back to the Novikov estate, which feels far safer than this house, after what happened tonight. The Yakuza broke through our defenses so effortlessly. We didn’t even hear them coming—though I’ll admit, I was preoccupied at the time.
I’m still shaking in the aftermath of the violence, a bone-deep chill making the tremor in my hands feel permanent. I can’t stop seeing the blood on the floor, the overturned tables, the chandelier swaying after the gunfire.
I keep reliving the heart-stopping trauma of watching helplessly as the man I love dove into the line of fire without a second thought.
He killed with a lethal, animal ferocity that was simultaneously awe-inspiring—and utterly terrifying.
I’ve never seen just how dangerous my husband could be before.
But after tonight, I have a new understanding of who Sandro is.
He’s more than just a man. He’s a deadly weapon—with a hair trigger.
My eyes stray naturally in his direction, and as if he can sense me watching him, he turns to me as the door closes behind Miko. Raf gives an exhausted wave good night and departs without a word, heading toward his wing of the house.
With a subtle tilt of the head, Sandro gestures for me to lead the way to ours, and I do, my heart beating irregularly in my chest as I pad toward him.
He walks beside me as we climb the stairs, but there’s a distance between us that I don’t know how to bridge. His hand isn’t on my back like it usually is. He isn’t teasing me, or whispering something low and rough in my ear the way he does when we’re alone. He’s silent.
And after how poorly my last attempt to comfort him went, I’m too much of a coward to try again.
The gold light from the sconces paints his face in harsh relief—the bruise forming at his jaw, the muscle that ticks there every time he clenches it.
He looks dangerous again—not the crazed beast I witnessed earlier tonight, but more like the man I first met.
And I drop my gaze to the floor so he won’t catch me staring.
When we reach our bedroom, he pushes the door open for me, but he doesn’t come in right away. He lingers in the doorway, scanning the hall like he’s expecting another threat to come bursting through it.
I slip out of the heels I collected from the terrace after patching up Raf, wincing as my sore feet touch the rug. “It’s over,” I tell him softly. “They’re gone. Everyone’s safe.”
He doesn’t answer.
I cross to him, laying a hand on his chest. His heart is still hammering beneath my palm, a harsh, erratic rhythm that tells me he’s far from calm—even if his expression’s stoic.
“You did everything you could. No one could’ve predicted what happened tonight.”
He finally meets my eye, and what I see in his dark gaze makes my stomach twist. It isn’t relief. It’s guilt.
“I should’ve been with Raf,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Not hiding in the damn shadows.”
“You weren’t hiding,” I whisper. “You were with me.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
My breath catches. “What do you mean?”
He steps inside finally, closing the door behind him, and the soft click sounds final. He turns away, running both hands over his face. “It means you’re a distraction, Evi. And I can’t afford distractions right now.”
The words slice clean through me. I blink at him, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “A distraction?”
He exhales, harsh and broken. “You know what I mean. I should’ve been focused—tonight of all nights. I should’ve been on Raf, not—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “Not with you.”
It’s like the air has been sucked out of the room. My eyes burn as a knot forms in my throat.
He looks at me then—eyes dark, conflicted, but still hard. “If anything had happened to him—” His voice cracks, and he cuts himself off again, anger rushing in to fill the space. “I could never forgive myself.”
I fold my arms across my chest, suddenly cold. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, feeling the sting of rejection even as I shoulder the burden of his remorse.
He looks away, muttering a curse under his breath, and before the tears fall, I spin quickly, retreating to the bathroom so I can pull myself together.
Because even if I’m still trembling with lingering adrenaline from the gunshots, even if the broken pieces of my heart feel like they’re crumbling apart, I can’t imagine what Sandro must be going through right now. And I don’t want him to see me cry.
He almost lost his brother tonight. His twin.
And it’s because he came after me, left the party to comfort me over a lie that’s slowly eating me alive.
“I’m sorry,” Sandro says from the archway, and even though his voice is low, softer, I startle.
My nerves are too frayed, my emotions on a roller coaster, and I gasp, spinning to face him as my heart races—for no apparent reason other than I didn’t see him coming.
Emotion flits across Sandro’s face—so quickly that I can’t identify it before it’s gone. Then he sighs, leaning one shoulder against the doorway and crossing his arms over his muscular chest as he drops his troubled eyes. “I didn’t mean to take my frustration out on you.”
But the words hang between us, already carved deep enough that sorry can’t erase them.
I nod slowly, swallowing the ache in my chest. “It’s fine,” I manage. “You’re tired. We both are.”
Eyes lifting with a glimmer of relief, Sandro steps closer, reaching for me, but I take a tiny step back. His hand hesitates in midair, then falls to his side. He gives a single nod. “Maybe we should just get some rest.”
“Yeah. Rest,” I agree, the world surging around me unsteadily. And I turn to start my nightly bedtime ritual, my movements numb.
It’s the first time since our wedding night that we climb into bed without touching. The first time there’s no teasing, no slow drift of his fingers against my skin, no whispered promise of what’s to come.
Sandro lies beside me, still and silent, his arm tucked behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. I turn to lie on my side, facing away, my eyes burning. I can still feel the heat of his body beside mine, but it’s like a wall has gone up between us.
I tell myself not to cry. That this is just exhaustion, stress, the fallout of everything that happened tonight. But the tears come anyway, silent and hot against my pillow.
I hate that I can’t stop thinking about what he said. That I’m a distraction.
And maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s all I am.
I toss and turn long after his breathing evens out. I can’t seem to find a position that doesn’t make the ache in my chest worse. Every time I close my eyes, I see the flash of gunfire, hear the screams, see Raf go down.
That was the most terrifying part of tonight, in all honesty. Because, while the rest of the room was watching their new Don be gunned down, it felt like I was watching Sandro himself taking that bullet.
It felt like I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I never have a hard time differentiating between my husband and his twin. But tonight, in that moment, it was like I watched the agonizing moment of Sandro’s death—then I had to witness him throw himself into the fray like his life was worth nothing.
When I’m finally done reliving that agonizing fear and pain, then my mind pulls forth the memory of Sandro turning on me in our bedroom, his face twisted with guilt and something darker… resentment.
By the time I finally drift off, the sky outside the window has turned the pale gray of early dawn. But I find no peace in sleep.
When I wake again, the room is bright, sunlight spilling across the floor. The space beside me is cold.
Sandro’s gone.
My stomach sinks. He didn’t wake me. Didn’t say goodbye. Just left.
I stare at the empty side of the bed for a long time, trying not to cry again. He’s probably with his brothers, cleaning up the mess from last night. That’s what I tell myself. But the silence of the room feels too heavy.
My heart hurts. Not just from what he said, but from the hollow feeling that maybe he meant it. Maybe I really am just a distraction—something that keeps him from the things that matter in his life.
I press a hand to my chest, breathing slowly. “It’s fine,” I whisper aloud. “He just needs time.”
But my stomach turns suddenly, hard and sharp. I groan and sit up quickly, pressing a hand to my mouth. The nausea hits fast and without warning. I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees, retching.
When it passes, I slump back against the wall, sweating and shaky. My heart races, my throat burning, and I stare at the floor for a long time, trying to piece together why I feel so sick.
It has to be a side effect of post-traumatic stress. Or the fact that Sandro and I fought, and my stomach always twists itself into knots when I’m upset.
But as I wipe my mouth and reach for a towel, something catches my eye—my box of sanitary supplies on the counter—and I freeze.
I try to remember the date. The number of days since the last cycle I had. I count the weeks in my head, my pulse climbing with every number. Then I scramble back to the bedroom to check the period tracker on my phone.
It’s been nearly six weeks. But that doesn’t really mean anything. My cycles have always been irregular—every doctor I’ve ever seen has said as much. Sometimes, I’ll go a month, sometimes two. It’s never meant anything before.
But now…
I’m too scared to hope. Still, my heart starts pounding.
Could I… be pregnant?
Probably not. I told my parents as much last night, and at the time, I’d been confident. I didn’t want to get my hopes up just to have them shattered when I started to bleed, so I’d forced the possibility from my mind.
And yet…
The thought makes my breath hitch. Stumbling back into the bathroom, I brace against the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My face is pale, my eyes wide. My stomach flips again, but this time, it isn’t nausea.
I open the cabinet under the sink, where I’d shoved a small box when we first moved in, after my mother’s warning about “expectations.” I hadn’t wanted to think about it then. But now I pull it out, the pregnancy tests rattling faintly in their foil wrappers.
My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop the box.
I take a deep breath. “It’s probably nothing,” I whisper to myself. “Just stress.”
But a small voice inside me says, What if it’s not?
I read the directions carefully two times, then go to the toilet to take the test.
The seconds stretch unbearably long as I wait.
I sit on the edge of the tub, my heart thundering so hard I can barely breathe.
Every sound in the house feels too loud—the distant tick of the clock, the faint creak of the floorboards.
And all the while, I can’t take my eyes off the simple plastic stick with its tiny oval window.
When the test finally gives its result, I can’t move.
Two lines.
I have to double-check the results to make sure I understand correctly. Then I press a trembling hand to my mouth, tears stinging my eyes.
I’m pregnant.
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it, half-sobbing, half-disbelieving. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “Oh my God.”
I stare at the test again, just to be sure. Two lines. Clear and undeniable.
My heart feels like it’s about to burst. I clutch the little plastic stick against my chest, shaking with relief and joy and fear all at once.
After everything the doctors said—after being told it might never happen—it happened.
And yet, the joy is immediately chased by a sharp, cold wave of fear as all their words come echoing back to me, If you do get pregnant, there’s a high chance you won’t be capable of carrying to term… You’ll most likely miscarry.
My hand goes protectively to my stomach, even though there’s nothing to feel yet. “Please,” I whisper. “Please stay.”
I sit there for what feels like forever, just breathing, the reality of it sinking in.
Then the fear of telling Sandro creeps in like a shadow.
He’s already angry. Already convinced I’m a distraction. How do I tell him this now?
If I miscarry—if I tell him and then lose the baby—how will he ever look at me again?
My throat tightens. No. I can’t tell him. Not yet. Not until I’m sure.