Page 87 of Cage the Storm
I count the cracks in the ceiling when I sit back on the couch. Each one buys me a second. A breath. A reason not to shatter.
Come home, Nico. Come home.
The baby’s restless, so I hum a lullaby. Sophie takes my hand, and we wait.
The rumble of engines cuts through the night. Tires screech and doors slam. I run to the window, my palm smudging the glass as headlights flood the driveway. Figures emerge, streaked in soot, their clothing reduced to rags. At the front, my mother stumbles. One heel’s broken, and her pearls sit haphazardly around her neck. Broken.
Her eyes meet mine through the grimy pane.
For a heartbeat, I’m thirteen again, clutching her hand as my father’s voice booms through the hall.“You’ll marry him, Luna. Or I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
Sophie’s grip bites into my arm, yanking me back. “Don’t let her in. Not after she chosehimover you.”
But the guard already has the door open. Mother staggers inside, reeking of smoke and regret. Her gaze darts to my swollen stomach, her lips trembling. “Luna, I tried to stop him. I swear I tried?—”
“Youwatched,” I whisper. The memory crashes over me: her turning away as my father’s men dragged me across the driveway before forcing me into the car.
She recoils, fingers twisting the remnants of her necklace. “He would’ve killedyouif you didn’t marry Giovanni.”
“He did anyway.” My voice frays. “Just slower.”
The guard who opened the door speaks. “Nico kept her alive. Said you’d want the choice.”
Choice.To forgive? To condemn? To forget?
Mother reaches out, her hand a ghost of the woman who bandaged my skinned knees. “Figlia,I?—”
“Don’t.” I step back, acid burning in my throat. “You do not get to call me your daughter anymore.”
She crumbles, her silent tears streaking her cheeks. I don’t watch as her staff guides her to a corner.
My mother, reduced to a beggar. My pain, reduced to leverage.
Somewhere out there, Nico is still breathing and fighting—stillmine.
Come home, marito. I need you.
Tell me how to hate her. Or how to stop.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
NICOLAI
The screamsinside the warehouse are deafening, and then abruptly stop. Vico and his men emerge, wiping the blood off their hands with anything they can find. “He’s all yours, boss.” I had given them five minutes, but since I’m feeling generous, I let it stretch to twenty-one—one minute for every year Luna’s been alive.
I step back into the hell I’ve created. D’Angelo hangs from the rafters like a grotesque marionette. His face is unrecognizable, but his eyes, wide and unblinking, still hold a shred of defiance. The same defiance Luna carries in her bones. I hate that I noticed.
I grab the blowtorch. “Let’s talk about your retirement.”
The blowtorch thrums in my grip, its blue flame hissing like a snake. D’Angelo’s swollen eyes track it, the last flicker of defiance drowning in primal fear. Good. Fear is a language he understands.
“Retirement,” I say, “is a luxury I won’t allow.”
The ropes bite into his wrists as he sways back and forth. The rafters creak, reminding me of a metronome or a morbid lullaby. Behind me, Mateo and the others blend into the shadows. They know better than to interfere when there’s work to be done.
I trail the fire along his feet. The stench of burning flesh is cloying and sweet. He opens his mouth to scream, but his vocal cords are already shot. I guess I’ll do the talking from here on out.
“It wasn’t that long ago you threatened to cut my child out of my wife’s belly. Your own daughter. Your flesh and blood. What kind of sick fuck would do that?” I murmur, leaning close. “Before that, your goons tortured me and forced her to watch. It’s a tactic we use on our enemies, not ourfamiglia.” The torch hovers over his balls. “You don’t deserve her, and God help me, I don’t either.”
