Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70928 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70928 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
When my legs give out, I collapse onto the bed, my fingers clawing at the sheets like they can anchor me to reality. I curl into a fetal position while my breaths hitch and sobs tear loose from my tight chest.
I’m assaulted by one memory after another.
Riccardo’s smile. His voice. His laughter.
The body beneath the white sheet. Christiano’s bloody jacket. The destructive agony when I thought he was gone.
The possibility that we might lose Riccardo twists like a blade into my pounding heart, deeper and deeper until I feel my sanity fraying. Fear drives me toward the edge like it did all those years ago.
Shaking violently, I wrap my arms around myself and try to hold onto the last of my sanity, because if I don’t, I’ll be consumed by the horrible emotions devouring me.
My blood roars in my ears as I groan into the covers.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
My anxiety spikes dangerously high, becoming relentless and suffocating until fear is all I am.
Alone in my bedroom, trapped inside my own terror, I break apart, piece by piece, praying to all that’s holy, Riccardo won’t die.
I have no idea how much time passes until a faint shudder works its way through me, my body shedding the last remnants of panic in slow, uncoordinated waves.
I try to turn onto my side, but my muscles don’t listen. Every movement is sluggish, like I’m pushing through mud that keeps trying to pull me under. My arms feel heavy and foreign.
I hate this state.
I hate the helplessness of being trapped inside my own body, screaming orders it refuses to obey.
I hate how powerless I feel beneath my own skin, all my emotions trapped under the fog pressing down on my chest.
Women like me aren’t allowed to break, yet I fracture into a million pieces every time something bad happens.
We’re raised to be strong, taught that weakness isn’t allowed in the Cosa Nostra. Where fear gives the other women power and control, forging them into strong queens who rule beside their men, it does the opposite to me. It unravels me until I’m barely sane, while reducing me to a fragile woman who will never be an asset to a man like Christiano.
The drugs I took before I passed out hum through my veins.
Mom and Dad.
Wanting to check on my parents, I use all my strength to shift to the end of the bed, but before I can get up, the door opens. Mom comes in, her face blotchy from crying, and taking a seat beside me, she caresses my hair.
My lips part, but she speaks first. “Gianna just called. Riccardo’s surgery went well. Augusto is almost in Tokyo, then we’ll know more.”
I wrap my arms around Mom and lean my weight into her. A sob bursts from her, and she grips me tightly.
Even though I’m a mess, it brings me some peace knowing I can comfort my mother.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“Just having you and Bianca here helps a lot.” Mom pulls back and gives me a watery smile. “I’ve taken one of your Xanax, so I don’t lose my mind from worrying.”
I hug her again, and knowing she needs to hear the words, I say, “Riccardo is strong. I’m sure he’ll be okay.”
Pulling back once more, her eyes drift over my face. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” I lie because the last thing she needs right now is to worry about me. She’s done enough of that for far too long.
It’s one of the reasons I’m moving out. Then I can have my meltdowns in the privacy of my own home.
Being around the Cosa Nostra constantly only reminds me of how volatile our world is and how fast I can lose a loved one.
“Girls, come downstairs,” Dad calls out.
“Maybe your father has received more news,” Mom says with hope in her voice as she darts up and hurries out of my bedroom.
I climb off the bed and stop by my dressing table so I can pull a brush through my hair before I go to the living room.
“We appreciate it,” I hear Dad say.
When the couches come into view, my feet stop dead in their tracks. Christiano’s eyes instantly lock on me, and as he rises to his full height, a chill spreads over my body.
I take in his usual black pants and dress shirt, the fabric tight against his body and following every curve and bulge of his muscles. My eyes flick over his fresh wounds.
A raw burn stretches over the side of his neck, and there’s a cut through his right eyebrow. There’s also bruising on his jaw and cheek.
My lips part with a gasp, and pain slices ruthlessly through me.
Seeing my reaction to him being hurt, the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. With the confidence of a God, he crosses the living room to me. Not caring that my family's attention is focused on us, he wraps an arm around my waist with a remorseless certainty of a man who never asks permission, before I’m pulled flush against his solid body.