Page 56 of Fatal Sloth

But as I reach for the thick black envelope, a sense of unease washes over me, pulling me back to reality. I know the handwriting all too well, and suddenly, the bubble of happiness I've wrapped myself in pops. An invitation from her, inviting Sebastiano and me to their house. My old house.

My muscles tense involuntarily, betraying the apprehension that lurks beneath the surface while I mull over Karen’s dinner invitation for tonight. The little hairs on my neck rise as my emotions run rampant, threatening to shatter my composure.

When I look at the white garment box, tied with a black bow, sitting on the kitchen island, my breakfast threatens to resurface.

Of course, she’d picked out an outfit for me.

My fingers tap nervously against the box, a dance of apprehension and uncertainty, as I wrestle with a bunch of conflicting feelings swirling within me. Dread coils around me, squeezing the breath from my lungs and leaving me gasping for air.

With trembling hands, I lift the lid, my heart pounding in my chest like a frantic drumbeat. And then, in one swift motion, I'm met with a sight that sends my stomach lurching.

One peek inside the box has my stomach churning violently as the unsettling sight before me triggers an immediate reaction. I abandon the offensive garment on the counter and run frantically toward the bathroom.

The sour tang of bile creeps up my throat, a vile warning of my body's revolt against the sight before me. Yet, even as I struggle to regain control, the relentless wave of nausea threatens to immerse me entirely, leaving me gasping for air between each retch, into the toilet.

With each convulsion, it feels like I'm purging not just the remnants of my breakfast but also every meal I've consumed this week.

The acidic burn in my throat serves as a reminder of the sudden emptiness I feel. I slump down, finding myself seated on the floor, overwhelmed by the wave of nausea and sadness washing over me.

Gentle hands rub my back. “Mia Cara, are you ok?” Marie asks. Her eyes filled with concern.

Despite the churning turmoil in my stomach, I force a smile as Marie watches me with concern. "I'm okay, really," I assure her, though I can tell she isn't convinced. It's not that I don't trust Marie. It's just that I don't want to burden her with my own problems. “It must have been something I ate,” I add, giving Marie another weak smile, but my facade feels paper-thin. I know she can see through me, her eyes filled with concern, but she doesn't question me. Instead, she rubs my back before handing me a tissue. A few moments later, when the sickness starts to lessen, we exit the bathroom, finding Roman waiting with a ginger ale in hand.

“I thought this might help settle your stomach,” he says, extending the cold drink my way. They both exchange sympathizing looks. Marie looks like she wants to say something, but I politely excuse myself before this becomes an episode of Dr. Phil, and I end up lying on the couch, disclosing my childhood issues and trauma to them.

With a few deep breaths to steady my nerves, I grab the garment box off the island and make my way upstairs. The weight of the dress feels heavy in my hands, almost slipping from my grip.

I step into my bedroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click, creating a sense of privacy. With a deep breath, I approach the box resting on the bed, my heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. Slowly, I open the lid and gingerly lift the dress out, handling it as if it’s a grenade ready to blow up in my face. Holding the dress up close, it looks even smaller than I imagined, sending another wave of nausea over me. The feeling grows stronger, and I can't shake it. It's like I'm about to step into a trap––a trap set by my conniving stepmother.

Ignoring the warning bells ringing in my mind, I shed my clothes, tossing them haphazardly into the laundry basket. Slipping the dress over my head, I wince as the unforgiving fabric clings tightly to my skin. With shaky fingers, I attempt to pull the zipper up, only for the zipper to refuse to budge. My heart pounds against my ribcage as panic begins to bubble up in my chest, threatening to choke me in its suffocating grip. Beads of sweat form on my forehead, trickling down my back and mingling with the fabric, making it even harder to move, and I feel trapped.

I need to take this dress off.

With trembling hands, I reach for the closet door, my heart racing in my chest. Fear fuels my actions as I attempt to peel the fabric away from my skin, but it clings stubbornly, refusing to release its hold on me-holding me a prisoner by the tight material. Tears blur my vision; I can't hold them back anymore.

The air feels heavy, pressing down on me with the weight of my anxiety. I try to stay calm, but each breath is a struggle. Collapsing to the ground, I gasp for air, tears streaming down my cheeks uncontrollably.

Just when I feel like I can't take it anymore, the bedroom door bursts open, startling me, followed by heavy footsteps that seem to vibrate off the hardwood floors. The closet door is yanked open, and there stands Sebastiano.

His features soften into a look of concern, and his eyes widen as he peers down at me. "Piccolina, what’s wrong?"

32

Sebastiano

Theo's voice crackles through the phone with urgency. "Hey man, check the news. I think we found your missing guy. There was no head or fingers. He's messed up pretty bad, but you mentioned a scar on his rib cage." He shoots over a text with an image, and I recognize Diego’s scar immediately.

"Yeah, that's him," I reply, my stomach twisting at the confirmation.

Theo continues, his voice grim as hell. "It's still unknown how long he was in the water and what really happened to him, but the body is in bad shape—what's left of it, anyways."

As if on cue, Enzo and Dario walk into the room, their faces as dark as the news they bring. The cops swarming the docks mean trouble for us. The heavy police presence at the docks spells trouble for our whole operations. We can't afford to get caught, especially with one of our own turning up dead.

I take control, barking orders at Enzo and Dario to team up with Greg and get the extra camera feed sent over, making damn sure nobody knows they were added—no more loose ends. It's time to move fast, protect our asses, and stay one step ahead of the fucker behind this.

Enzo and Dario hustle to pull up the CCTV footage from the last few days while I'm left with a sinking feeling in my gut. It's still a mystery where the hell Diego was tossed from, but it's worth digging into.

Just as I'm wrapping up the call with Theo, the sound of Mia's sobs hits me like a freight train.

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