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Fainting seems like a ridiculous response to emotional devastation. Thank you, body, for reminding me I’m very much still human despite how easily I’ve taken to this mafia life.

My father, the man who wrecked everything he touched like a vindictive wrecking ball, is the man Enzo’s supposed to kill.

Is fate playing some sadistic Romeo and Juliet twist on me?

Even then, the death of a father is way worse than that of a cousin, and I couldn’t really say Enzo will be doing this for love. We might end up with the same tragic fate, though.

I shouldn’t care about Vincent, the man who drugged my mom, hospitalized her, and used me as a pawn in his sick games.

Part of me wants him dead. Erased so Mama and I can finally breathe without glancing over our shoulders. The thought sickens me and churns my stomach until I taste bile, because he’s still my dad, even if that title means nothing, even if monster suits him better. Whether I like it or not, his blood runs through my veins, and I don’t want him dead. Not by Enzo’s hand or anyone else’s. At least, that’s what I tell myself as my stomach twists and the walls close in on me and my treacherous thoughts. Gio’s voice lowers. “Enzo will handle it. He always does.”

Handle it. What a neat phrase for execution.

The air vibrates with ghosts. My reflection in the window looks foreign. A woman with wild eyes, trembling lips, and nowhere left to hide who’s breaking her own heart. The girl who waited to be saved has died somewhere between those teardrops and the truth.

When Marco steps away to take a call, I retrieve the key Mama pressed into my palm. Our old townhouse, that’s where I need to go.

Escaping proves simple enough. I hate that stealing a spare car from the open-air garage around the main villa is almost too easy. Leaving this place feels like a betrayal, and I can’t decide if I’m running toward answers or away from Enzo. I keep waiting for a voice to call my name, for a hand to clamp down on my shoulder. Nothing happens. Everyone’s distracted by bigger problems. I’m just another detail no one’s paying attention to.

I climb into the car and drive toward one of the estate’s side gates. The guards stop me, but after I smile and name-drop Enzo, they swiftly open the gate.

To cover my tracks, I ditch the car two streets down, in case the men report back to the main house. I wear a baseball cap pulled low and a hoodie zipped to my chin. Then I head down the streets on shaky legs.

I wonder if I should’ve just stayed put and let the events unfold around me. That’s what Sophia the kindergarten teacher would’ve done, but I’m no longer her.

This Sophia shares a bed with one of the most dangerous men in the world. I don’t cower, and I’m no longer a hostage, a victim, or a weak vessel who needs protection.

I’m strong enough to protect those I care about too.

The indifferent streets beyond the estate yawn awake. The townhouse waits on a forgotten street on the other side of the city—our old home—boarded and skeletal. Ivy crawls up the brick walls, and grime blinds the windows. My hand shakes as I pry open the side door. The metal groans in protest. Inside, darkness breathes back at me, thick with neglect. Sheets draped over furniture resemble ghosts mid-prayer.

Family portraits collect dust on the walls. The air smells like rot and old wood. Cobwebs stretch across doorways, and water stains bloom on the ceiling like bruises.

As I move through the hall, the floorboards creak. I pause near the fireplace, recalling when Mama’s laughter filled this room.

The brass key that my mom gave me rests warm in my palm, the edges worn smooth from years spent hidden away. “If you ever need the truth, it’s beneath the stairs.”

The small, precise lick of the lock disengaging punctuates the quiet.

Behind the panel, I find a stack of boxes with yellowed labels. 1992. 1998. 2004. My heart seizes.

The first box exudes the scent of old paper and rot. Ledgers filled with neat handwriting reveal my father’s meticulous cruelty. Names of families. Offshore accounts. Shady deals with the Benedettis, Rossis, and Russians. Every signature a confession written in ink and arrogance.

Photographs of grinning men in suits shaking hands over ruin spill out next. Some of them have names, dates, and addresses scribbled on the back.

My hands tremble. Beneath the papers, I discover flash drives marked with names. Gabi. Volkov. Valenti. As a lawyer, Vincent always documented conversations, deals, and betrayals. He created insurance policies against everyone he worked with. And this place, our abandoned family home, was the perfect hiding spot. Who would think of searching a boarded-up townhouse covered in ivy?

Curiosity claws at me. I dig out an old laptop from the dusty stash along with a portable charger, plug in a drive, and press play.

Two voices crackle through static. Vincent’s calm, calculating one. And another younger and sharper one. Gabi.

“The route’s confirmed for Tuesday.” Vincent’s tone is businesslike. “Your father’s convoy takes the coastal highway. I’ve already fed the details to the right people.”

“Good.” Gabi’s voice drips with cold ambition. “Make it look like an FBI hit. The family will rally behind the grieving son.”

“And my payment?”

“You’ll get your cut. Just make sure nothing traces back to me. I need to be above suspicion when I take the throne.”