CHAPTER FIVE

GABRIELE'S POV 

Carmela emerged in a silk nightgown—dark purple, almost black. There was nothing seductive about it, but the way it draped over her body…

Fuck. 

She'd taken down her hair. It fell in long, dark waves past her shoulders. No makeup. Just her bare face. 

And for one gut-wrenching second, I saw Elena. Same bone structure. Same wide, dark eyes. Same defiant tilt of the chin when she was angry with me.

But Elena never looked at me with murder in her eyes.

She saw me staring and crossed her arms—a barrier between us. Her jaw set. Every line of her body screamed stay away, though we both knew the bed we'd share made that impossible.

"What?" Her voice sounded defensive and hostile.

I looked away and drained my glass.

"Take whatever side you want," I said, unbuttoning my shirt.

"I'll take the couch."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

I didn't repeat myself. Just continued undressing—shirt, belt, trousers. Down to boxers and undershirt because I was too tired for modesty and too indifferent to care what she thought of the scars carved into my skin.

She stared at them. At the bullet wound from two years ago, the knife slash from five years ago. The cigarette burn from when I was seventeen and learning what betrayal cost.

"Something you want to say?" I asked.

She turned away. 

She made her way to the bed, lying on the left side—Elena's side—and faced the wall.

Fine.

I switched off the lights and got into my side of the bed. The bed was massive but her presence filled it. Every breath. Every shift. The jasmine scent of her hair shampoo.

I stared at the ceiling and counted the ways this was a disaster.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Neither of us slept.

The silence pressed down like a physical weight. I could hear her breathing—controlled, deliberate. Like she was forcing herself to stay calm.

"Stop thinking so loud," I muttered.

"Stop being so close."

"It's my bed."

"It's my prison."

I turned my head. Found her silhouette in the darkness.

"You're the one who wanted this. Now you're in. You could have said no."

"So could you."

Fair point.

She shifted, and jasmine drifted across the space between us. Elena wore roses. Always roses.

"Why jasmine?" I asked before I could stop myself.

A pause. Then: "Why do you care?"

"I don't."

"Then stop asking questions."

We lay there—two strangers bound by law and mutual hatred—staring at a ceiling that had no answers.

"For the record," she said finally, "I'm a light sleeper. If you try anything—"

"I won't."

"—I'll gut you with whatever's closest."

Despite everything, my lips twitched. "Noted."

Silence again. But it was different now. Less hostile. 

More dangerous.

Because the last thing I needed was to find Carmela Ferrara—now Conti—interesting.

I drifted off to sleep.

*****

The nightmare always started the same way.

Elena's laugh. The sound that used to fill our home, making the darkness less dark.

Then the hospital. Fluorescent lights. That fucking smell—antiseptic and death.

Her hand in mine. Cold. Already slipping away.

The machines. Beeping, beeping, beeping, then—

Flatline.

The doctor's voice: "I'm sorry, Don Conti. We tried to save her."

But he wasn't sorry enough. None of them were. They'd let her die. I'd let her die. I couldn't save her.

The scene shifted. Her car. Twisted metal. Blood splattered across the windshield. Her blood. 

The brakes. Cut clean through. A planned murder.

And I hadn't seen it coming. I couldn't do anything to stop it.

Elena's voice, broken, accusing: "You promised you'd keep me safe."

"I know. I know, amore, I'm sorry—"

"You promised."

"Elena, please—"

"YOU PROMISED—"

“WAKE UP, GABRIELE!!”