I turn to De Rossi. “Did they get my wife?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I sent Napoletano there to help Nero, but I haven’t heard from him yet.”
He sent Napoletano to Cleo but the two of them came here? “You should have gone there too.”
“We saved your life, asshole,” Ras snaps, his gaze fixed on Garzolo. “Go to her. You can thank us by leaving him to us.”
He wants to deal with Garzolo? I size the two of them up. I suppose if there’s anyone who wants Garzolo to suffer as much as I do, it’s them. They won’t show him mercy, not after everything Garzolo has done to his other two daughters. Garzolo abused Gemma and married Valentina off to a madman before she escaped and met De Rossi. This vermin deserves everything that’s coming to him.
Cleo is still out there, and I have to go to her.
I give Ras a nod. “Fine. He’s yours. Savor it.”
Ras’s eyes flash with dark excitement. He pulls a knife out of a holster strapped to his arm and walks up to Garzolo.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this,” he croons at the man.
I leave them to it. De Rossi bumps my shoulder with his fist as I walk past him.
The last thing I hear as I step out into the parking lot is Garzolo’s ear-piercing scream.
It’s a twenty-minute drive to get to the address De Rossi gave me. I try Nero, but he doesn’t pick up his phone. I’ve never been an anxious person, but right now, I’m a ball of fucking sweat. My skin prickles with discomfort, and I can’t seem to get enough air. I have to trust that Nero saved Cleo.
My thoughts churn. I can’t seem to hold on to a single thread. My reliable friends—clarity, rationality, common sense—have abandoned me. Everything in my head is disorganized, impossible to piece together. It’s unnerving. As if I’m in a trance.
Finally, I get there. It’s another warehouse, smaller than the one I just left. I park by a car I recognize as Nero’s, leave the engine running, and jump out. Something desperate and terrified claws up my throat as I sprint toward the entrance.
If she’s been harmed, I’ll burn this city to the ground.
The scene inside the warehouse isn’t as bloody as the one I just left. Three bodies lie on the ground, none of the men mine, and I rush past them, my gaze desperately searching for Cleo. I spot Nero and Sandro. They’re arguing loudly with a guy I vaguely recognize as one of Ferraro’s. They hear me and turn.
“Where is she?” I shout.
Nero points to the left, and that’s when I find her.
Cleo’s huddled on the ground by a knocked over chair, someone’s jacket wrapped around her. She’s staring at the ground, eyes wide, like she’s in shock.
De Rossi’s guy, Giorgio, is kneeling beside her, saying something in a low tone.
My lungs expand.
She’s alive. She’s safe.
Slowly, she lifts her face, and her gaze meets mine. A fracture appears inside my chest at how vulnerable she looks. I rush over to her, fall to my knees beside her, and pull her into my arms.
She makes a low sob. “Rafe.”
“Tesoro. Are you hurt?” I can hardly recognize my own voice.
“No.” She shakes her head, holding me tightly to her. “I’m okay. Is my dad…”
“Dead.” Or he’s well on his way there. “He’ll never harm you again.”
She sobs again, and I rock her in my arms. My throat tightens, and everything feels so overwhelming and so fucking raw that a new wave of panic claws up my chest.
The memory of my mother’s pained screams pierce through my head. I squeeze my eyes shut for a long moment and then open them.
I can hear Sandro and the other guy still shouting at each other, but Nero is here now. He’s standing just a few feet away with Giorgio.
They’re both staring at me with strange expressions on their faces. Like they don’t know who they’re looking at. Like the Rafaele they know is gone, and in his place is another man. A man who’s allowed himself to be consumed with fear. A man who’s been brought to his knees. A man who’s weak.
A don must never look weak.
What’s happened to me?
What the fuck am I doing?
Throwing away my reputation, the one I’ve spent a lifetime building, right here on this dirty fucking warehouse floor?
I let go of Cleo and get to my feet. I am not that man. I cannot be that man, or everything I have will be lost.
“Are Garzolo’s men all dead?” I ask Nero.
“Yeah,” my consigliere says. He wipes his palm over his mouth. “But we have a problem.”
“What happened?”
The dark-haired Ferraro who was arguing with Sandro appears in front of me and shoves against my chest. “This fucking fool,” he shouts, pointing at Nero, “shot Michael. My cousin. The don’s nephew. Do you fucking idiots understand what you’ve done?”
Fucking fuck. “Nero, is that true?”
Nero gives me a guilt-ridden look. “It was an accident.”
The guy sneers. “You better pray he makes it.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down. What’s your name?”
“Emanuele.”
“Where is your cousin?”
He jerks his head in the direction of a man lying on the ground. Tiny and Sandro are beside him, pressing rags to what looks like a gunshot wound to his gut.
“I didn’t know they were coming,” Nero says, his voice hoarse. “I thought he was one of Garzolo’s men, and I just fucking shot him. It was chaos. I was trying to get to her.”
Fuck. It’s my fault. I never warned him the Ferraros were coming.
“We already called Doc,” Sandro says. “He’s on his way.”
I walk over to where the man is lying on the ground. The guy’s pulse is still there, but weak. He’s bleeding out.
Nero kneels beside me. “Rafe, what were the Ferraros doing here?”
“I called them. Asked them to help.”
“Why would you do that? I had enough men.”
I open my mouth and then shut it. There’s no good answer. I panicked and made a mistake. A big one. If Michael dies, there will be a war.
I stand up and take a step backward. Everything is falling apart. How is it possible that in less than an hour, I’ve lost control over everything? We didn’t even need Ferraro’s men. Nero had it covered. Why did I think it was a good idea to involve them in this?
No, I wasn’t thinking at all. I was desperate to save Cleo.
I didn’t even consider the potential consequences of my rash decision. I let my emotions take control of me.
Bile rises up my throat. Nero was right after all. She did manage to get under my skin.
She is my living, breathing weakness.
Tires screeching outside. Everyone pulls out their guns, but it’s just Doc. He runs through the entrance of the warehouse, his medical bag in hand.
“Over here,” Nero shouts.
While the doc’s checking Michael out, I walk back to Cleo. She’s still on the ground, watching everything with wide tear-stained eyes, but she’s visibly calmer. I offer her a hand to help her up, but there’s this angry buzz beneath my skin.