Thankfully, the way he watched Sydney and me was making me a bit nauseous. I got to my feet and straightened my dress.
“Is there a reason you’re not celebrating with the people upstairs who came here for you?” Antonio asked.
“Yes, actually, there is. To shoot Ace. Since I’m not currently armed, I’ll let you do the honors.”
He rolled his eyes and headed to his desk. “Appease my wife, son. It is her birthday.”
I turned to Nico, triumph sparkling in my eyes like a sibling who had just won a battle. But that was a slightly awkward comparison, considering we’d had sex.
Nico shook his head, and then walked to the door and opened it. “You have a second to say what you need to. And you’re not fucking shooting me.”
“We’ll see,” I muttered, passing him as I walked out the door.
My bare feet touched the cool concrete in the hall just as the first pop cut through the air. A draft hit my face, a ring sounding in my ears. John slumped to the floor with a solid thunk.
I stared at the splatter of red that slid down the wall in front of me.
My breath escaped me in one rush as someone slammed me to the wall, covering me with their body.
Pop.
Pop.
“Fuck,” Nico growled, smacking the wall beside my head. He whirled around, pressing his back to my front. The sound of three close gunshots cut through the air. They rang in my ears and vibrated in my bones.
Something wet and warm soaked through my dress. I touched the spot and brought my fingers up to my face. Red coated my hand like paint.
So much blood.
“Ace,” I breathed. “Oh, my god, Ace.” My hand shook.
Someone grabbed my wrist and shoved me into my husband’s office.
“Do not leave this room under any circumstance,” Antonio said. The darkness in his soul had leaked into his eyes, filling them with black. He slammed the door, and I fell back a step, finding balance.
“Oh my god, Gianna!” Sydney hurried over to me. “Where are you hurt?” She ran her hands over my arms and midsection while I stared blankly at the door. When she didn’t find a scratch, she breathed, “Whose blood?”
“Ace’s.”
“Oh, my god.”
A pop sounded from outside the door, one after the other, and then it went quiet. So quiet my heartbeat pulsed in my ears.
She eyed the door.
“No, Sydney,” I warned.
Turmoil flickered through her gaze. “I can help.”
“No.” Urgency filled my voice. “You heard Antonio.”
Tears filled her eyes, one escaping her bottom lashes. “I have a bad feeling, Gianna . . .”
“You love him.”
“Yes,” she cried. “I don’t want to live without him.”
She took a step toward the door, but I grabbed her wrist. I wouldn’t let her sacrifice herself for love. I couldn’t. Love wasn’t worth it. Love hurt. I tightened my grip when she tried to knock my hand away. But then the lights went out, and darkness descended on us, with reaching, searching, cold fingertips.
A strangled sound of protest escaped my lips, and I was eight years old again. Don’t you ever shut up, girl? Disgrace. Worthless. Unlovable. Whore.
My lungs tightened, constricting.
Her wrist slipped from my grasp and disappeared into the darkness.
You’re dead to me.
“No,” I cried, as I dropped to my knees and fought to breathe.
Sydney got her wish.
She didn’t have to live without him.
On my twenty-third birthday, I became a widow of one.
24 years old
August 2015
“CAN YOU FEEL IT? THE beat in your chest?”
I gave my head a shake, long curls sticking to my tear-streaked cheeks.
“Here.” Mamma grabbed my hand and pressed it to my chest, over my light pink church dress. “What about now?”
Something pulsed beneath my palm, small but fast, like the flutter of a frightened bird’s wings. I nodded.
“It’s music,” she whispered, like she was telling a big secret.
My eyes filled with awe, but soon, fear crept into the corners of my mind. “But Papà hates music.”
“Some men, Gianna . . . can’t feel their own music, let alone other’s.”
Sadness pulled on my chest.
Mamma’s gaze grew wet, like mine. “Dance to this”—she pressed her hand to my heart—“whenever and however you want.”
“Whenever I want?”
“Yes, stellina.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead and my five-year-old heart warmed. “Whenever you want.”
“I’m scared of the dark.” The whisper invaded the memory, my low, toneless voice sweeping in.
You’re dead to me.
You’re dead to me.
You’re dead to me.
The words came out with the blackness to swallow me whole.
I woke with a start, the sheets stuck to my sweaty skin. Catching my breath, I stared at the ceiling of my apartment. The dream swept me back to the night of my twenty-third birthday.
I sat at the back of an ambulance, the doors open on either side of me. It was hot and humid, though my blood ran cold.
A sheet covered the body, but it couldn’t conceal the long blond hair hanging off the stretcher as they loaded Sydney into the back of an ambulance.
Someone stood in front of me, and I brought a blank stare to his. I’d been sitting on Antonio’s cold office floor in the dark when he’d found me. Allister hadn’t said a word as he picked me up, letting me cry silently on his shoulder while he carried me outside. Before he disappeared back inside, he’d taken off his suit jacket and rested it on my shoulders. It smelled like a man’s. Deep, and rough, and masculine. I tried to drown myself in the scent instead of the numbness.
“Do you want to go home?” he asked.
Home?
It had always been Antonio’s house more than it had ever been mine. After the Sydney fiasco, I stayed at one of his apartments when I could, just to escape his attentions when he was home. I wondered if Sydney had known Antonio was never faithful to her, that he’d tried to seduce me while claiming to love her. She’d died for him, for love. The word left a sour aftertaste in my mouth.
The idea of going home suddenly sounded abhorrent.
I shook my head.
“Where?”
“Ace’s,” I whispered.
A muscle in his jaw tightened, and something bitter passed through his eyes. “Ace won’t be there for a while.”
An ambulance had taken him to the hospital despite his protests. He’d been losing a lot of blood from the two bullet wounds he’d received, one in the side and one in the arm. He’d taken those bullets for me, and I was going to nurse him back to health, whether he liked it or not.
“I know,” I said.
Allister ran his tongue across his teeth as though agitated, but he moved to speak with one of the dozens of agents nearby.
I followed him to his car. I realized it was the first time I’d ever seen him without a suit jacket. His white long-sleeve shirt molded his broad shoulders and arms. I’d never noticed just how built the man was until now. Maybe I was losing my mind, but I studied his form the entire walk to the car as I trailed behind him, barefoot.