Page 44 of Power
The bar quiets. People sense it and the shift in the air. The kind of moment that comes before something breaks.
Dario’s voice is calm. “Didn’t expect him to send you so soon.”
The man grins. “Didn’t expect to see you with her.” His eyes move to me, filled with something cold. “Enzo’s not happy.”
And just like that, the world tips.
Everything happens fast. Too fast.
Dario moves first, flipping the table between us and drawing his gun in one smooth motion. The first shot rings out and is deafening. Then another. Chaos explodes around us.
I hit the ground and crawl for cover as people scream and scatter. More shots. Glass shatters. I hear a grunt—someone hit—but I don’t dare look.
“Vittoria, back door—go now!” Dario’s voice cuts through the noise.
I move, scrambling toward the back door, but I don’t make it far. A hand grabs me, yanking me back. I twist, kicking, but he’s bigger, stronger. A knife glints under the dim lights before it presses against my throat.
I go still.
The man leans in, breath hot against my ear. “Thought you were smarter than this.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He laughs. “Sure, you don’t. That’s why you’ve been warming his bed instead of doing what you were told.”
My stomach twists. He knows. Enzo knows.
“Listen, you have to help me tell him that I haven’t found anything on him,” I say quickly. “Dario never leaves me alone. I just need some time. I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m still on the mission.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “Enzo’s going to have your head for this.”
The words shouldn’t hit me like they do. Shouldn’t make something inside me shrink, tighten. I should be afraid. Furious that my husband put me in this mess in the first place and doesn’t even care to come for me. But has no problem sending his goons after me. But all I feel is—
Loss.
Like I’ve already lost whatever I was holding on to. Like I was stupid enough to believe I ever had it at all.
The man releases me with a shove, stepping back. “Good luck explaining yourself.” Then he’s gone.
I don’t move. I can’t.
Dario finds me minutes later, gun still in hand, blood staining his shirt. His eyes sweep over me, taking in the small cut on my neck and the way my hands are shaking. His jaw tightens.
“It was him,” I say. “Enzo.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I see it. The glint of something suspicious behind his eyes. Something he wasn’t expecting.
“I know,” he says. And I don’t know if it’s a lie.
He doesn’t ask questions. Just takes my hand, pulls me up. “We need to go.”
We leave behind the wreckage, the bodies, the blood. But none of it feels as heavy as what’s aching in my heart and what I’ve known would be coming all along.
When we get home, I barely register the sting as Dario presses a cloth to my wound. His own injuries are worse, but he doesn’t seem to care.
And then, before I can stop myself, I’m kissing him.
Not out of gratitude. Not out of relief.
