Page 92 of Deception

So I lay there in the dark for hours, staring at the wall, waiting until I’m sure they are both asleep. I still need to get into his office.

But exhaustion and stress eventually pull me under, dragging me into fretful dreams.

My brother yells to me in the dark, calling for me. My mother cries, having lost both of her children. My faceless, nameless child wanders the streets, an orphan, doomed to never know his parents because Alessandro killed me, murdered me for betraying him.

“Wake up you traitorous bitch!” A gruff voice yells in my face.

I think it’s still part of my dream until a rough hand tears away the covers, drags me out of bed by my arm. “Get up!”

“Aless—” I start to protest, thinking he’s come to tie me up again.

But it’s not Aless.

As I’m dragged out into the hallway, the house still dark, I can make out Adriano’s features, shadowed and glowering. Chills and a sickening fallout in my gut make me instantly sick.

Pure dread swells up as he pulls me toward Alessandro’s office.

“Come on! Stop fighting,” he growls, sounding so similar to his brother.

Only there’s no passion behind the words, no lust or love. Just ice-cold rage.

“Let me go!” I shout, and he does, shoving me into the office, stumbling to my knees on the carpet. “What's going on?”

“Allow me to explain…” Adriano grinds out as Alessandro stands behind his desk, a look of outrage on his face.

“What the fuck are you doing, Adri? What’s the meaning of this?”

“This is the meaning. The whole fucking reason she came.” He slaps the packet of papers down on the desk along with several small clattering objects.

I don’t have to look up to know what they are.

“What the fuck…” Alessandro sifts through the recording devices. “Where did these come from?”

“All over the house,” he explains, reaching down to grab my hair, shouting in my face. “You working for the feds? Interpol? Huh?!”

He shakes me once before releasing me to fall roughly onto my hands.

“I-I … no?—”

I look up, searching for Alessandro, trying to catch his gaze. He’s staring blankly at the desk.

“Alessandro—”

“Stop.” The tone is intractable. Aless is someone else now.

Even Adriano tenses, going totally still. This is his boss, not his brother.

We wait as he sorts through the items, the temperature in the room rising several degrees.

“Isabella…if that even is your name.”

“It is,” I choke.

“But you’re not Isabella Bianchi.” Adriano flings another piece of evidence down. “Found this in your coat pocket. You should be more careful.”

The train ticket stub has my name, printed in bold letters.

“You…you went through my things?” I shouldn’t be surprised.

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