Page 80 of Obsession & Oath

But I already know—I’ve lost him.

And maybe I was never meant to keep him in the first place.

“You have ten minutes.”

The silence stretches between us.

Then, finally, I nod.

“Fine.”

I push past him, refusing to let him see the way my hands shake as I reach for my suitcase. Vaguely, I’m aware that he leaves me alone in the room.

Vaguely? I meantacutely.

If this is how it ends, then so be it.

But God, it feels so much like a death sentence.

My hands shake as I shove clothes into my suitcase.

Every fold of fabric, every item I toss into my bag is a nail in the coffin of the life I thought—no, Iknew—I wanted. A life I was foolish enough to believe could be mine when I already had a life planned out for me somewhere else.

I pause, gripping the edge of the dresser as the room sways around me.

Brooklyn.

I’m going back to Brooklyn.

Back to my father. Back to the life I left behind as a different woman. Abetterwoman, if I’m being honest. Certainly less prone to flights of fanciful daydreaming and terrible, awful, heartbreaking decisions.

I swallow hard.

I’m not the daughter Amos Rubio let be sent to Italy months ago. I don’t know how to pretend I am.

I’m notpureanymore.

The word sours in my mouth, bile rising in my throat.

My father’s definition of purity was never about innocence—it was about control. It was about power. I was supposed to return untouched, ready to begiftedto Hernando Lacruz like some obedient little bride, securing my father’s grip on the Cartel.

But I am not untouched. And if my father finds out?

A shudder wracks through me.

There’s no telling what he’ll do.

Part of me wants to believe that he’ll listen, that he’ll see reason. That he’ll look at his daughter—the one who has fought for his respect since the day she could walk—and grant her even an inch of freedom.

But the other part of me, thesmarterpart, knows better. Amos Rubio doesn’t grant freedom. He takes it. And if he thinks I’ve shamed him? That I’vesulliedmyself?

I don’t finish the thought. I can’t.

I open the dresser drawers and reach for the first thing inside. My fingers brush over the soft silk of a dress, one of the many Evelina had made for me. It was a deep green, one that Dante once said made my eyes look like the hills of Montecroce in the sun.

I remember twirling in it the first time I wore it, laughing as Dante caught me by the waist and murmured something sinful against my ear.

I shove it into the suitcase and grab another. Then another.

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