Page 12 of And Back

Zoe listens intently, her eyes searching mine for any sign of deceit. She’s still worried—how could she not be? But my tone seems to have some effect. Her shoulders relax just a fraction, and she nods slowly.

"I just... I'm scared for you," she admits, her voice trembling slightly. "For both of you."

I reach out and take her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine. "I know," I whisper. "But you have to trust me on this. We'll get through it."

She squeezes my hand tightly.

"Stay close," she murmurs.

"I will," I promise.

But deep down, I know I'm lying. I can't let Zoe get hurt. The plan Dante and I have crafted in secret is dangerous, and the last thing I want is for her to be caught in the crossfire.

We sit there in silence for a moment longer, holding onto each other as if that simple touch can ward off the darkness closing in around us. My thoughts race with everything left unsaid—the plan Dante and I have crafted in secret, the dangerous game we're playing with our father's twisted mind—but for now, all that matters is that I have to keep Zoe safe, even if it means deceiving her about the true stakes.

Eventually, she pulls back slightly but doesn't let go of my hand entirely. "Just promise me one thing," she says softly.

"Anything."

"Don't let him break you," she whispers.

I manage a small smile, though it feels more like a grimace. "He won't," I say with conviction. But promises are easy to make when you're trying to shield someone from the harshest truths.

I lie on the hospital bed, bandages wrapping me like a macabre gift. The burns are healing, but each breath I take is a searing pain that courses through my body. The white walls, stark and unfeeling, mock me with their purity.

A single window lets in harsh, fluorescent light, making everything appear more surreal. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, a scent that does nothing to mask the underlying odor of my own scorched flesh. I want to scream, but my throat is too dry; all I manage is a hoarse rasp.

My mind drifts back to the deal struck with Russo’s Camorra. They promised Mom and Dante safe passage, and all it cost was my own freedom. My mother and brother were reported dead in a car accident—such an elegant lie—while I was left behind to become a pawn in this sick game.

The Camorra saw me as useful—a spy embedded within Benedetto's household. Four years of playing double agent. Four years of enduring his wrath without flinching.

The resentment festers like an untreated wound.

They left me behind.

She left me behind.

Mom and her loyal bodyguard, a Russo spy all along, whisked Dante away to safety while I was consigned to hell. I should feel some relief knowing they are alive and well, but instead, I am consumed by anger.

Each throb of pain from my burns is grounding yet infuriating. It pulls me back from the brink of madness but fuels my rage at the same time. How could they? How could she? My own mother abandoned me to that monster.

I clench my fists beneath the sheets, feeling the pull on my tender skin. The pain is a bitter friend now—always there, always reminding me of my betrayal.

The door opens with a creak, and a nurse steps in, her footsteps echoing softly on the tiled floor. She checks my IV drip without looking at me directly—another faceless figure in this antiseptic purgatory.

"How are you feeling today?" she asks, her voice neutral.

I want to laugh at the absurdity of the question but instead manage a gruff "Fine."

She nods mechanically and makes some notes on her clipboard before leaving as quietly as she entered.

Fine. That word means nothing anymore.

My eyes drift to the window again. Somewhere out there, Mom and Dante are living their new lives under different names, free from Benedetto's tyranny, while I'm left here—scarred, bitter, and seething with rage.

I think back to when Dante was just waking up from his coma—those precious few moments before they took him away. He didn’t even recognize me or our mother; he was a blank slate ready for new memories while mine were etched in fire and blood.

I take a deep breath despite the pain it brings and close my eyes against the harsh light flooding into the room. For now, all I have is this rage—it keeps me going when nothing else can.

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