6

•ODESSA POV•

I wake up to the sound of a key turning, and for a second I think it’s Massimo, but the room is wrong. The ceiling is too high. The sheets smell like fresh wood and oily metal instead of cologne.

Then I remember. Alessino.

The door opens and two women walk in with a basin of water and towels folded so sharp they could cut. “Mr. De Luca sent us to help you clean up,” the older one says. Her voice is polite. Empty. Like she’s reciting a script.

I sit up too fast and the room swims. “Where am I?”

“In the west wing, ma’am. You’re safe here.” Safe. Right. That’s why there are two men outside my door with guns and no faces.

They don’t touch me hard, but they don’t ask either.

They strip the bloodied shirt off me and wipe me down with warm cloths, and I let them because fighting would mean they call him. I catch my reflection in the mirror while they comb my hair and I barely recognize the girl looking back. Pale. Eyes too big. Mouth pressed shut like if I open it I’ll start screaming and not stop.

“You don’t have to be scared of him,” the younger one whispers when she thinks the other isn’t listening. “He won’t hurt you.”

I want to laugh. He won’t hurt me? Alessino made his name by hurting people. But I just nod because my throat is dry and the whole house feels like it’s holding its breath.

They leave food after. Chicken, rice, and bread. It smells good but my stomach is a knot. I push the tray away and sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the quiet. It’s not normal quiet. It’s the kind you get before someone kicks a door in.

I don’t remember lying down. I just know the ceiling is above me and then it isn’t, and then there’s nothing.

---

The door opens before I can get my head straight.

He walks in without knocking. Black shirt. Sleeves rolled up. He looks exactly the same as he did five years ago, except for his eyes. His eyes look like he’s been bleeding since I left.

He throws something on the bed. It’s a newspaper. Folded to the society page.

Bianchi- Merger Confirmed: Engagement of Massimo Bianchi to Odessa Romano.

There’s a photo of me. I’m wearing white. I’m smiling. Massimo’s ring is on my hand. The date on the paper is from three weeks ago.

“Explain that,” Alessino says.

His voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes after five years of grief turns into rage.

I don’t touch the paper. I can’t look at the photo. “You had me dragged here. You tell me.”

“I buried you, Odessa.” He steps closer. “I put you in the ground five years ago. I stood at your funeral. I carried your casket. So explain to me how you’re sitting here. Engaged. Alive.”

My throat closes up. This is it. This is the part I knew was coming.

“I don’t—” I start, and then stop. I don’t know what to say is a lie. I know exactly what to say. I just can’t say it.

“You don’t what?” He leans down, his hands on the mattress, caging me in. “You don’t know how you’re breathing? Because I’ve been asking myself the same thing for two days. Ever since I saw that photo.”

Two days. He’s only known for two days. He’s been grieving me for five years, and he’s had two days to realize it was all a lie.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It’s the only true thing I can give him.

“Sorry for what?” His voice drops. “Sorry you’re alive? Or sorry I found out?”

I flinch. “I never wanted you to—”

“To what? To know I spent five years mourning a ghost?” He grabs my left hand. My finger is bare. He took the ring last night. “You were alive. You were his. The whole time I was putting flowers on your grave, you were saying yes to him.”

“I had no choice,” I say. It comes out too fast. Too defensive.

“You always have a choice.” His thumb digs into my pulse. “The engagement party. June 14th. The Plaza. You wore blue. You laughed when he toasted to your future. That doesn’t look like a woman without a choice, Odessa. That looks like a woman who moved on.”

“That’s what powerful men tell themselves. You think everything is a choice because nobody has ever put a gun to your head and made it one.” I told him. My voice shakes.

“Then make me understand, bugiarda.” Liar. “Tell me why you let me bury you. Tell me why I spent five years tearing myself apart for a woman who was planning her wedding.”

I want to. God, I want to tell him. I was forced. I was threatened. They said they’d kill you if I didn’t disappear. But I can’t. If I tell him, the people who made me do it will finish what they started. And he’ll go after them. And he’ll die for real this time.

So I say the only thing I can.

“I did what I had to do.”

“No.” He lets go of my hand like it burns him. “You did what was easy. Dying was easy. Living with him was easy. Letting me grieve was easy.”

He stands up. He’s done touching me.

“Five years,” he says. “One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-six days. I counted. Every single one. And you were alive for all of them.”

He walks to the door. His hand is on the handle when he stops. He doesn’t look back at me.

“You wanted to explain without spilling anything,” he says. “Congratulations. You just told me everything I needed to know. You chose to be dead to me. You chose to be alive for him. And you still won’t tell me why.”

I can’t let him leave with the last word. I can’t let him think I’ve given up. If I don’t fight now, I’m never getting out of here.

“Massimo will come for me,” I say. My voice cracks, but it’s loud enough. My hands are shaking. I hide them behind my back so he doesn’t see.

He goes still. His shoulders tense under his shirt. His hand tightens on the door handle until his knuckles turn white. He doesn’t turn around.

“No,” he says. Quiet. Too quiet. “He won’t.”

My stomach drops. “You don’t know him—”

“I sent him a message two days ago.” His voice is flat. Empty. “The day I found out you were alive. Do you want to know what it said?”

I don’t. I really don’t. But I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

“It said to him you’re mine now. Look for you and he dies. Say your name and he dies. Think about you and I’ll carve him out of his own skull.”

My blood turns to ice. My chest hurts. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

He finally looks over his shoulder at me. Just for a second. His eyes are dead. There’s nothing in them. No anger. No grief. Just nothing. And that’s worse than if he was screaming.

“He chose to live, Odessa.” He says my name like it tastes bad. “Just like you chose him. Just like you chose to stay away for years while I rotted.”

I take a step back without meaning to. My legs hit the bed. I sit down because my knees won’t hold me anymore.

“You think he’s your Prince Charming?” He takes one step back into the room. Not touching me. Not coming closer. Just making sure I hear him. “You think he’s going to ride in here and take you home and you’ll live happily ever after? That’s not how this ends.”

I shake my head. I don’t want to hear this.

“If you try to run, I’ll break his legs first. Then his hands. Then I’ll send you pieces of him until you stop running.” His voice doesn’t change. It stays calm. That’s what makes me sick. “If you lie to me again, I’ll burn his house down with his family inside. If you say his name in your sleep, I’ll cut his tongue out and make you wear it.”

Stop. Please stop. I want to say it, but my mouth won’t work.

“You don’t get to betray me twice, traditrice.” He spits the word. “You did it once when you put yourself in that coffin. You don’t get to do it again. There is no happy ending with him. There is no ‘after’ with him. There’s only me. Only here. Only this.”

He gestures around the room. My prison.

“So you can keep lying. You can keep hoping. But understand this.” He leans against the door frame. Casual. Like we’re talking about the weather. “The second you choose him over me again, I will make sure he dies slowly. And I will make you watch. And when he’s gone, you’ll still be here. With me. Forever. Because I would rather keep you in a cage than see you in his arms.”

My hands trembled slightly. My heart is beating so fast it hurts. I can’t feel my fingers.

“Do you understand me, Odessa?”

I nod. I can’t speak. If I open my mouth, I’ll throw up or scream or beg. I don’t know which one.

“Good.” He turns the handle. “Sleep well. Dream of him if you want. Just remember I own your nightmares now too.”

The door shuts. The lock turns.

I sat on the bed for a long time. I don’t cry. I’m too scared to cry.

Massimo isn’t coming. He can’t. Because if he does, Alessino will kill him. And it’ll be my fault.

Again.

And for the first time since I woke up, I realized the truth.

I’m not afraid of Alessino.

I’m afraid of what he’ll make me watch him do.