Chapter Four

Luca seemed to want to make it up to me.

He went out less. He even ate dinner with me twice at the mansion—though most of the time he was silent, or trapped in endless calls. He had someone acquire a small Impressionist piece I’d once mentioned liking years ago and hung it in my room.

“The Sicily schedule is set. Early next month.” One evening, he said it without looking up from his laptop. “Godfather likes quiet, well-behaved women. Talk less. Listen more. I’ll prepare the gifts.”

“Okay.” I sipped my soup.

He shut the laptop and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked tired. The Razor Gang’s harassment and family pressure had him stretched raw. Uncle Vincent’s “reminder” had clearly done its work, but it had also sparked Luca’s stubborn defiance; he’d been even more hard-edged lately.

“Cecilia…” he started abruptly. He paused, watching my face.

I set down my spoon and waited, calm.

“I told her to leave Nightfall for now—go out of town and lie low,” he said, like he was discussing an asset disposal. “The Razor Gang might still come after her. When this is settled, I’ll give her money and send her to the West Coast. She won’t bother you again.”

I nodded. I didn’t ask what kind of “settled” he meant. I didn’t ask how much “money.” It didn’t matter anymore.

“You’ve been too quiet lately, Elvira.” He leaned forward, lifted my chin with his fingers, studying me. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

“And what should I be?” I asked. “Crying? Hanging myself? Going to slash her face?”

He frowned and let go. “You know that’s not what I mean.” He leaned back, lit a cigar. Smoke blurred his expression. “How long have we been together? Seven years? Eight? Some things have changed. Some haven’t. You’re my lady. That won’t change until death.”

Until death. I rolled the words over like wax.

“I’m tired. I’m going upstairs.” I stood.

He didn’t stop me. He only drew in a deep breath of smoke, his gray-blue eyes watching me through haze—complex, unreadable.

Deep at night, once I confirmed Luca was in the study, I slipped to an abandoned storage room in the west wing.

It was piled with old things, dust thick in the air. The wall was thin. Next door was the soundproof smoking room Luca sometimes used for private meetings. A renovation oversight years ago had left a narrow, hidden seam.

I curled into the shadow behind broken furniture and held my breath.

About half an hour later, I heard the door next door open. Two sets of footsteps—Luca’s, and another light, familiar one.

“Are you insane?” Luca’s voice was low and furious. “How did you find this place?”

“I missed you!” Cecilia sounded tearful. “You told me to hide out, but it’s been days and you haven’t called once! Those rural holes are filthy! I don’t care—I’m coming back! Luca, you can’t just toss me aside!”

“Keep your voice down!” Luca snapped. Then fabric rustled and there was a muffled sound, like he’d pressed her against the wall. “Listen. It’s not the time. The old men are watching, and Elvira—”

“Always Elvira!” Cecilia’s voice turned shrill. “You’re scared of her? You said she was just a decoration! You said once I helped you stabilize Nightfall’s cashflow and dealt with those ‘special guests,’ you would—”

“I did say that!” Luca cut her off, impatient. “But plans change. She’s still the lady. Getting rid of her isn’t that simple. And…” He paused, his voice dropping, a rare thread of weariness in it. “She’s been with me for years. She’s never made a mistake. I can’t…”

“You can’t what—can’t bear to?” Cecilia sneered. “Luca Cosio, since when did you grow a soft heart? Haven’t you killed enough people? She’s in our way!”

“She’s not in our way!” Luca growled. “She’s just… there. When I’m back from Sicily, I’ll talk to her. Give her enough money to spend for lifetimes, send her to Switzerland—anywhere she wants. The title of Mrs. Cosio… maybe we keep it. But everything real will shift to you, slowly. You need to learn. You need time.”

“Time?” Cecilia started crying again. “I gave you time! My youth, my body—I gave it all to you! Luca, don’t send me away… I love you. I can help you more than she ever could. Those dirty books, those deals that can’t see daylight—I’m not afraid. Let me stay by your side. Out in the open.”

A long silence.

Then Luca’s heavy breathing, and a sigh so faint it was almost nothing.

“When I’m back from Sicily,” he finally said, voice rough. “When I steady things with Godfather and take the next stage of control. I’ll handle Elvira. Then Nightfall and the South District business go to you. But before that—you behave. No more trouble. No more contact. Understand?”

“…I understand.” Cecilia’s voice softened, sweet with triumph. “I knew you cared. I’ll wait for you, Luca.”

Cloth whispered. Wet sounds. Kissing.

I leaned against the cold wall. My nails sank into my palm, but I couldn’t feel it.

So that was what he meant by “handle” me.

Like throwing out a broken piece of furniture.

The last ridiculous thread still binding me snapped.

I left the storage room without a sound and returned to the bedroom. From the deepest hidden compartment in my vanity, I took out a flat metal box.

One item was the record of the abortion procedure.

The other was a plain gold ring—Luca’s mother’s, left to him, slipped onto my finger one morning after passion cooled and he was too careless to remember. Later even he forgot it existed.

He’d once said it was the only clean thing he had.

I put them into an unmarked white envelope and sealed it.

Then I opened my laptop and logged into an encrypted email. Inside was a message already drafted—addressed to one of Luca’s most trusted, and most greedy, lawyers. Attached: carefully doctored “evidence” pointing to Cecilia having had contact with a Razor Gang lieutenant.

The send time was scheduled for the day I left the city.

Finally, I booked a one-way ticket.

Destination: Zurich.

Time: tomorrow, 3:00 p.m.

When it was done, I went to the window. The horizon was already paling gray.

This gorgeous prison that had held me for years showed its cold outline in the early light.

Luca, you’re going to wait until you get back from Sicily to “handle” me.

Too bad.

I won’t be waiting.

Your kingdom. Your ambition. Your sweet little viper.

Have fun sinking together.

I changed into the simplest black trousers and top, took out the passport and driver’s license prepared long ago—issued to “Ayla White”—and slipped them into my small bag.

My shoulder still ached faintly, like a brand. Like a parting bell.

Goodbye, Luca.

Or rather—never again.