Page 2 of My Sweetest Temptation

“Take care of my niece,” she said, a watery smile breaking through her tears.

“How do you know it’s not a nephew?” I attempted to tease her, but my voice came out hollow, as if my soul was already fading.

“Because this baby is already strong in a way that’s only true for the women in our family.” She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “I love you. Stay safe. I’ll see you again,” she promised, but her voice trembled, betraying the truth.

“Put that back in,” she said, gesturing to the cloth in my hand. I raised it toward my lips and did as she said.

“We have to go!” Dante’s voice jolted me back to the nightmare that was my reality.

He swept me into his arms, and I screamed into the rag at the sharp pain coursing through my body and the terror of leaving my sister behind.

“I’ll go down first, and I’ll pull you in,” he explained as he sat me down. Just then, Camilla darted over. She thrust a bag into my hands.

“It’s food, water, and a change of clothes,” she said in a rush.

Before I could thank her, muffled male voices echoed ominously from the stairwell. I clutched the bag close to my chest, my heart racing.

“Go!” Valarie whispered fiercely.

Dante gave a sharp nod as he grabbed my hips and yanked me down the hole. The world above vanished and we tumbled onto the cold, clammy ground. The chill seeped into my bones, draining the last remnants of my strength.

Camilla cast a frantic glance over her shoulder, then looked back to me, her face draining of color. “They’re coming,” she whispered.

“Valarie!” I called, desperation creeping into my voice, but she was already stepping back. She blew me a kiss before she slammed the trap door shut, plunging us into an even more oppressive darkness.

“Come on,” Dante urged, stuffing the cloth back into my mouth. He again lifted me into his arms as he hastened through the damp, cool darkness of the tunnel. Every breath felt like a brutal task, heavy with the weight of what I was leaving behind. Anxiety clawed at my chest from knowing the danger that Camilla, my sister, and mother would have to face.

When Dante finally slowed, I mumbled through the rag, my voice weak, “Put me down. I can walk.”

Dante shook his head firmly. “No, you can’t. And be quiet. Your father’s guards are nearby.”

We froze as the guards’ voices drew closer. If we were caught, our fates would be sealed. Dante pressed himself against the wall, shielding me with his body. “Shh,” he whispered.

The guards’ footsteps seemed to echo in the confined space, their voices growing louder. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I imagined what my father would do to us if he found us. I could make out parts of their conversation—something about the soccer game, a missed goal, and cursing the referee for his terrible call. Each step felt like a countdown to our demise. My heart pounded in my chest as I silently prayed to God for help and to guide us to safety.

Then, suddenly, as if God heard my prayer, the guards’ footsteps faded into the distance. Slowly, the tightening in my chest began to loosen, and I could finally breathe.

“We have to move—now,” Dante demanded.

Without hesitation, he forcefully kicked open the gate. We stepped into the woods and fled, and I left my old life behind.

When I woke, the scent of spices and candles hung in the air. My eyes fluttered open, and I knew, I just knew, where I was. The ornate European décor, the plush king-size bed that enveloped my body, made it clear I was back in Alphonse’s bed. Back where I felt safe.

But the bruises on my body were a reminder of why I shouldn’t be here. Every ache and bruise told a story of what my father was capable of and wouldn’t hesitate to do again. I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in my side had me wincing.

“Easy, bellissima,” a deep, gravelly voice rumbled from the shadows. There he was, Alphonse Gambino, standing in the doorway. His very presence made my heart race and made me feel comforted. But his expression, a mix of concern and fury, only added to the anxiety raging within me.

Alphonse strode over and knelt by my side, his eyes burning with intensity. “You’re safe, Angelica.” He shook his head. “Why did you go to him? I knew he would allow his men to do this,” he said angrily, looking up and down my broken body.

I cringed at the memory of my father’s men, their fists raining down on me as I tried to plead my case.

An unsettling chill crawled up my spine the moment I stepped inside the house. Something was wrong.

I ventured further into the main room and was met with my family’s cold, hard stares. My father sat in the armchair, a glass of whiskey gripped tightly in one hand, the other clutching a newspaper. And my mother sat in a chair beside him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

This was bad. Very bad.

“Angelica,” my father said, his voice low and dangerous, a warning bell ringing in my ears, “we need to talk.”

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