Page 67 of Bianchi

Cazzo!

My eyes grow hot before I rub at them and let the regret wash over me. It settles on my chest, heavy and incessant.

I’ve killed plenty of people in my life and given orders for others to do the same. I couldn’t tell you how many people have died because of me, but if she is one of them… I’ll never forgive myself. I should have trusted that she wouldn’t do something like this. And because of me, she’s most likely dead.

Clearing my throat, I reposition myself in my chair and squeeze the bridge of my nose. A pounding behind my eyes only intensifies with every second that passes until I can’t take it, or the feeling of guilt, anymore.

Standing, I wrap my hand around the base of the lamp on Massimo’s desk and launch it at the wall. The porcelain shatters, falling to the floor as I turn, looking for something else to throw. Anything to get rid of this feeling.

My fingers grip the heavy crystal paperweight before a hand lands on my shoulder, gently squeezing. “Rome, I need you to stop destroying my office.”

Turning toward him, my voice cracks. “I told them to kill her.” My eyes widen as I recall my last words to her. “I told her that I hoped they’d make it as brutally painful as possible, Massimo. There’s no getting her back.”

“I know what you said but you have to hold on to the hope.”

My breaths come in heavy pants, the panic clawing at my lungs. Massimo turns me toward the chairs, pushing me to sit. Leaning against his desk, he says, “Look, I’m sure you took them by surprise and they’re regrouping, trying to figure out a way to get back at us. It’s what we would do. So, if we’re going to get her back, then we need you to be the levelheaded one.”

But what if they’ve already killed her?

The question tastes bitter on my tongue, but I can’t force it out. Instead, I suck in a breath and push down the emotions. If I want to get her back, I can’t drown in this feeling of hopelessness and guilt.

I have to find her and bring her home.

Chapter 43

Aurora

The boy hasn’t been back. He must have told them about our interaction. Snitch.

Between losing consciousness and calling for help, the hours are blending together. And no matter what I try to keep track of how long has passed, I still don’t know what day it is.

I need the end to come.

I need the grand finale in an extraordinarily boring life to arrive sooner rather than later.

My cut hasn’t stopped bleeding for longer than a few minutes and if it wasn’t for another tray of food being dropped off earlier, I’d think they’d left me to die. Hell, I’m not sure why they’re feeding me at all, to be honest. Especially since the last monster who brought me food responded to my pleas for something to staunch the bleeding with a disgusted grunt. He threw the tray onto the floor by the door, spilling half of its contents.

I forced myself to crawl across the room to ease the hunger pangs. The scraps did little to help, barely giving me enough strength to sit up, let alone make it back to the cot.

My eyes feel heavy and with my back propped up against the wall and my head rolling against the exposed brick, I allow them to flutter closed.

There are what feels like two seconds of darkness before a familiar voice calls out, “Hey, baby.”

My brows tug together and my eyes sting from unshed tears. Emptiness fills my body, but the pain in my chest only amplifies. I miss her so much. Blinking my eyes open, I search the room for her, calling out, “Mom?”

She’s been coming to me more often these past few days. Appearing in snippets, like a hologram. Now, she crouches in front of me, her hand brushing away the hair that the sweat has plastered to my forehead. I close my eyes at the familiar touch. It feels so real.

“It’s me, sweetie.” She moves to sit next to me on the floor, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me into her side like she did when I was a kid.

Tremors race through me and I tighten my arms around my waist as I lean into her touch. I feel clammy and hot, yet I can’t stop shivering. Is that because I have an infection? The first aid training I got as part of my job doesn’t exactly cover past the time it would take a medic to get to the scene.

Well, nobody’s coming for me.

With all this extra time on my hands, I’ve reflected on how much I’ve messed up with purely existing. There was so much I could have done that wouldn’t have involved the extremes of mafia life, but instead, I chose to do nothing. As if that was any better, or even what my mom would have wanted for me.

I should have traveled the world or opened an art gallery. Instead, I hid away and worked. And what exactly do I have to show for it? I missed out on love… on lust and the feeling of being wanted so much by another person that they’d sacrifice it all for me. That fills me with a sadness far worse than the thought of never getting out of here and being forgotten ever could.

A tear slips free, and I hiccup, “Nothing makes sense anymore. I miss you so much.”

---