CHAPTER SIX

CARMELA'S POV 

Gabriele’s body jerked beside me.

A sharp breath tore out of him, rough and unguarded, followed by a sound that didn’t belong to a Don—broken, desperate.

“Please,” he whispered into the dark. “I tried. I swear I did—”

Elena’s name slipped from his mouth like a wound splitting open.

I opened my eyes and sat up slowly, studying him in the dark. The great Don, reduced to this—pleading with ghosts, begging forgiveness from a woman who was already dead.

He looked weak. Broken. Pathetic.

"Elena." Her name came out strangled. "I'm sorry. Perdonami, amore mio."

There were tears on his face.

I felt nothing. This display of grief meant nothing—he'd had six months to mourn. Six months while I planned how to make him pay for failing her.

One nightmare didn't absolve him.

Before I could process anything, his hand shot out and caught my wrist in an iron grip.

I gasped, tried to pull back, but his fingers tightened.

Even unconscious, he reacted to threats like the predator he was.

"Gabriele." I kept my voice flat. "Let go."

He didn't respond. Just kept gripping my wrist, lost in whatever hell his mind had conjured.

"Gabr,ele." I said again louder. "Wake up."

His eyes snapped open.

For three seconds, he stared at me like I was a stranger. Pupils blown wide, chest heaving, that hand still locked around my wrist like a manacle.

 Even vulnerable, he was dangerous.

Then reality crashed back. I saw the exact moment he recognized me.

His expression shifted, confusion, recognition, then something that looked almost like shame.

He released me immediately, sat up fast, and put distance between us like I'd burned him.

"I'm fine."

His voice was rough. Nothing like the controlled Don who'd ordered me around earlier.

I rubbed my wrist where he'd grabbed me. No bruises, but I'd remember the feeling. 

"You were crying," I said coldly.

"I said I'm fine."

His jaw clenched. "Go back to sleep, Carmela."

"Difficult to sleep when your husband is sobbing next to you."

The word husband came out like an insult. That's how I meant it.

He stood abruptly, moved to the window turning his back to me like he could hide what I'd already seen.

"Nightmares happen," he said flatly. " Deal with it or sleep somewhere else."

"You said we had to share the bed for appearances."

"Then stop complaining."

 I should have left it there. But I'd seen something—a crack in the armor, a weakness I could exploit.

And I was here to destroy him, after all.

"You called her name," I said. "Elena. You were apologizing to her."

His shoulders tensed. "Drop it."

"What were you apologizing for, Gabriele? Letting her die?"

"I said drop it."

"Did she blame you in the dream?" I pushed harder, waiting for his breaking point. "Did my sister tell you it was your fault?"

He spun around, and the fury in his eyes should have made me flinch but it didn't.

"You want to know what I dream about?" His voice was low, dangerous. "You want the details of how I watch your sister die over and over? How I see the car, the blood, her face—"

"It was an accident." I cut him off. "A tragic accident—"

"It wasn't an accident."

The words hung in the air between us.

I stared at him. "What?"

"Elena's death wasn't an accident." He moved closer, and there was something wild in his eyes now. "Someone cut her brake lines. Someone murdered your sister and made it look la ike mechanical failure."

My heart stuttered. "You're lying."

"I had the wreckage examined. The brake lines were severed. Clean. Professional."

"You're making excuses—"

"Why would I lie?" He laughed, bitter and harsh. "You already hate me. What difference does it make if she died in an accident I failed to prevent or a murder I failed to stop? Either way, she's dead. Either way, it's my fault."

I stood, needing to put distance between us. This was a trick.

"If someone murdered her, who? Why wouldn't you tell anyone?"

"Because I don't know who yet. And because whoever did it is close. Inside the Famiglia. Someone with access to her car, her schedule, her security." His voice dropped. "Someone I trusted."

No. I wasn't going to fall for this.

"How convenient," I said coldly. "You couldn't protect your wife, so you invented a conspiracy. Someone else to blame. Anything to avoid responsibility—"

"You think I'm avoiding responsibility?" He crossed to me fast, got in my space. "I live with this every single day. Every night I see her die. Every morning I wake up knowing I failed. You want me to suffer? Congratulations. I'm already in hell."

I forced myself not to step back. 

"Pretty words. Doesn't change the fact that she's dead and you're alive."

"You think I don't wish it were me instead?"

"Then you should have died." The words came out cold. "She was good and kind. She was worth ten of you. And instead, she's dead and you're here, throwing yourself a pity party—"

His hand slammed against the wall beside my head. It was so close enough that I felt the violence.

"I know," he said quietly. "I know she was worth more and she deserved better. I know I should have died instead. You're not telling me anything I haven't told myself a thousand times."

We were inches apart, both of us breathing hard. 

"Good," I said. "Then we agree on something."

His eyes were dark, burning. "Is that what you want to hear? That I hate myself as much as you hate me?"

"I want to hear the truth. But I don't think you're capable of that."

"The truth?" He leaned in closer. "The truth is your sister was murdered and I'm going to find who did it. Whether you believe me or not."

"How noble. The grieving widower seeking justice." My voice dripped with sarcasm. "Let me guess—you've been investigating for months but somehow haven't found anything."

Something flashed in his eyes. Hurt. Rage. I couldn't tell.

"Believe what you want," he said flatly and stepped back. "Think whatever helps you sleep at night."

"I sleep fine."

"Do you?" He moved toward the bed. "Because I don't. I haven't slept through a night in six months. But you already know that now, don't you? Got a nice front-row seat to my suffering."

"Is that what you think this was? Entertainment?"

"I think you wanted to see me broken. Well, you got your wish. Satisfied?"

“No. I'm not. I won't be satisfied until I see you break. Where's your proof?"

"What?"

"The examination reports. If Elena was really murdered, where's your proof?"

"Why would I show you?"

"Because if you're lying, I want to know. And if you're not lying, then I want to know who killed my sister."

He turned slowly and studied me with those dark, unreadable eyes.

"And what would you do with that information?"

"That's my business."

"Not if it puts you in danger."

I laughed, sharp and bitter. "You're worried about my safety? That's rich coming from the man who couldn't even protect his own wife."

His jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I couldn't protect her. Which is exactly why I won't let you go running into danger because you're too stubborn to see the threat."

"You don't get to make that choice for me."

"I'm your husband. I do."

"You're my husband on paper. That's all. Don't confuse a signature with actual authority over me."

"Tomorrow," he finally said. "I'll show you the files tomorrow. The examination reports, the evidence, all of it. Then you can decide if I'm lying."

"And if you are?"

"Then you'll have more ammunition against me. Win-win for you."

Lies. It had to be lies.

But what if it wasn't?

What if someone really had murdered Elena?

 No. Gabriele Conti was a master manipulator. This was what he did—played on emotions, twisted truth, made people see what he wanted them to see.

I wouldn't fall for it.

"If I find out you're lying," I said to the darkness, "about any of this—"

"You'll what? Try to kill me?" He almost sounded amused. "Get in line, moglie mia." 

I stared at the ceiling, mind racing.

Tomorrow he'd show me his supposed evidence and I'd know if this was manipulation or truth.