Echo, p.13
Echo, page 13
I would have accepted his truth, and I would have accepted him.
It would have been both of our undoings, but it also would have been my awakening and my one chance at a life with him, and I would have taken it.
Gratefully.
But he had left me.
And now I was here, abandoned by a Cosa Nostra Enforcer, and fate had played her hand. I should have been thankful, but I was not.
I was not even accepting.
I did not care about reality or that we were both alive because of what he had done.
I was not seeing sacrifice.
I did not see selflessness.
I could not even see truth in that moment.
All I felt was hurt as I replayed every second of the time I had treasured with a lethal killer. Coloring the memories with the warm, golden palette of every beautiful sunrise I had ever seen, I thought of what could have been.
Grasping at a yesteryear through the pale tint of hindsight, I even ignored the past’s foreshadowed glimpse into hell. Because suddenly, every emotion I had locked down for too long was at the surface, and I was romanticizing the notion that we could have had a life that beat all the odds.
Me and him against the world.
An Enforcer and a Principessa.
A triumph of love that needed nothing because it was everything.
i knew it was all a lie. Of course it was. But the desperate, hurting eighteen-year-old inside of me that had been starved of hope and fed crushed dreams—she had come back. With all of her pain and unscabbed wounds, she was suddenly here, dragging me down with her as I irrationally thought about chance circumstances.
Circumstances I could not afford to entertain.
Yesterday was a lifetime ago, and my fate was cast before I was born. In no world was I ever going to belong to Erico Mantovani.
I knew that.
But it did not stop me from thinking about it now, same as I had the first time I saw the striking hazel-eyed man with a gun who had brazenly stared at me. I had thought about it then, and I had wished for it, praying that destiny was finally sprinkling my path with fresh seeds. I had wished for it so hard that I had truly allowed myself to believe in the impossible because I had no idea who he had been.
Never imagining he was a ruthless assassin with dozens, if not hundreds of kills, I had imagined him making me his wife. I had ignorantly believed he would save me and take me away from that horrendous night in Palermo.
I thought he would whisk me back to the remote Sicilian villa where we could have made a home, lived a life with the sound of children’s laughter and smelled the Mediterranean as it carried on a warm afternoon breeze, rustling the fruit trees in the orchards.
But that was the lie.
Storybooks always were.
This was now, and the fury in his voice was striking me as hard as if he had been the brother who had actually hit me.
“Start talking. This time without whatever bullshit story you fed Trefor. Why the fuck are you here, Sancia?”
How could I answer that?
How could I tell him I had not known he was here when I had walked into this sky-high building or that I was not sure I would have stayed away if I had known?
I did not even know Erico was still alive.
And if not for Ademaro, I never would have had confirmation of what Erico had done.
I had suspected it. But it was not until Ademaro spit out in anger that I had destroyed three Mantovani brothers’ lives that I truly knew.
Guilt had filled my veins, but I had said nothing.
I had already learned that no one spoke back to a Cosa Nostra Don.
Same as I had learned—when I had insisted the pilot take me to the country villa instead of the airport and Ademaro was there waiting—that my life as I had known it was over.
Offering his hand in marriage under the guise that it was the only way to protect me, but saying we had to move quickly, Ademaro had seemed sincere.
Afraid to trust the pilot, not trusting myself, not understanding how Erico could have left me, I was young, terrified, and traumatized while Ademaro had calmly stood there in a suit without a gun attached to his hip.
I had believed him.
It was not until the next morning that I had fully understood the gravity of my mistake.
The memory came unbidden.
Curled on my side, a horrible ache between my legs I refused to think about, I fought tears as I lay in a bed that smelled of perfume that was not mine. Staring across an unfamiliar bedroom to a window with a foreign view, I watched the first rays of the sun cast bright light on a new life I did not want.
The bed shifted, then quiet footsteps sounded before a door closed and a shower turned on.
The tears fell.
And fell.
Before I could stop them, the shower had turned off and the bathroom door had opened.
Soap and cologne filled the room a second before his voice did. “Get up.” Without warning, the perfume-laced sheet was whipped off me.
Naked, scrambling, I sat up and brought my knees to my chest as he walked into his closet.
Swiping at my tears, I wrapped my arms around my legs and glanced at the floor at the only article of clothing I had.
The black dress.
The dress I was wearing last night when the men had held me down. The same dress that had gotten splattered with the blood of those men as Erico and the pilot had killed them. The dress I had gotten married in mere hours ago in the middle of the night before I was ordered to take it off and get in this bed.
Ademaro walked out of his closet wearing suit pants, dress shoes and an unbuttoned custom-made shirt.
His glare was so full of hate, I could not stop them. Two tears slid down my cheeks.
His gaze hardened. “My brother, his Consigliere and our top soldiers are dead. I’ve had to step up as Don, and Erico now has a price on his head for killing both Giancarlo and his Consigliere. Do you know what you’ve done to this famiglia?” His cruelty knowing no bounds, he did not wait for a response. “You have ruined three brothers’ lives. You do not deserve to cry. If I see it happen again, I will give you something to truly cry about.”
Biting the inside of my cheek to keep from sobbing, I pulled my legs closer to my body. Too late, I realized my mistake.
His gaze cut to the bloodstain on the sheet beneath me, and he made a sound of disgust. “Clean yourself up and get dressed. Then we’ll talk.”
Barely keeping it together, I glanced at my ruined dress. “I have no clean clothes.”
Buttoning his shirt, he yelled over his shoulder. “Maid!”
As if someone had been waiting outside, and before I could put even a pillow in front of me or the ruined bed sheet, the door opened.
The cruel maid that Papà had refused to fire walked in with a smile brighter than the early morning sunlight. “Bon giornu, Signore. What can I do for you?”
My stomach dropped as a new level of despair mixed with anger.
His glare on me, Ademaro issued the maid orders. “Bring her something to wear. Then put the rest of her things in her room.”
“Of course, Signore,” she answered him in a sickly sweet tone, but behind his back, she smirked at me before leaving.
As soon as the door closed, desperation bled out of my mouth, and I said the only thing I could think of that might matter to this man. “That maid was a problem for my father. She was not loyal.”
Ademaro finished buttoning his shirt. “Of course she wasn’t. She was hired by Giancarlo and placed with your father’s approval. Her job was to keep tabs.”
After the momentary shock wore off over learning that Papà had been conspiring for a year with Giancarlo Mantovani and allowing one of his employees to spy on me, my misery grew roots. “She detests me.”
“So?” He fitted a tie around his neck.
I did not know this man, and I already hated him as much as the maid hated me. “Am I to be kept alive?”
His movements deft, his hands paused for only a second. “For now.”
Naked, hopeless, and with nothing left to lose, I spoke the truth. “Then you need to fire her.”
“Because?”
God help me, I lied. “She threatened me with a knife.” If I was to live here, if I was to endure this man, if this was my penance for not trusting Erico and my presence here kept him safe out there, then I would do it. But I could not, would not, do it with that maid here. I would end my own life before I committed myself to an existence with her in it.
Staring at me for a full twenty seconds, Ademaro said nothing. Then he abruptly called out. “Consigliere!”
I grabbed two pillows and put them in front of me as the door opened again.
A man about the same age as Ademaro but more muscular and much, much more frightening walked in, but thankfully, he did not look at me. “Don?”
“Get rid of Giancarlo’s maid.” Ademaro tipped his chin at my dress on the floor. “Put her in that before you dump the body. Leave her somewhere she’ll be found.”
My mouth opened, but shock stole my breath and my words.
Without so much as a glance in my direction, the Consigliere picked up the dress that most likely had my DNA on it and silently walked out.
Ademaro casually put on his suit jacket. “You’re not to leave the grounds.”
A cold chill swept through my veins. “A-and if I do?”
His ruthless stare met mine. “I control your father’s successor at the bank. I took the Vincenzos’ money. I put the word out that it was you and Erico behind the theft and that you both disappeared. Then I eliminated every soldier who was at your father’s estate who could identify you and issued a hit on both you and Erico. That means your life is now in my hands. Behave, and you might survive.” His expression turned deadly. “Misbehave, and you will not.”
My throat moved, my lips parted, but shock was mixing with my horrifying new reality, and I had to force myself to ask what I needed to know. “Misbehave?”
The cold-hearted man who had robbed me of all dignity and innocence rattled off my sentencing without an ounce of emotion. “Speak, question, or disobey me. Reveal to my soldiers, house staff or anyone else your true identity or that you are my wife. Attempt to leave or contact anyone, or stop being useful to me.”
“You—” I had to clear my throat. “You are keeping our marriage a secret?” How was that going to protect me? He had said my protection was directly linked to becoming his wife. He had driven me back to Palermo to his family estate where Papà was waiting, and he had married me in front of him.
“Yes. And if you wish to keep breathing, you will also keep it a secret. If anyone asks, which they won’t because I have already informed the staff that you are a distant relative from my late mother’s side. But if they do inquire, you’re last name is Marino, and you are nothing more than a poor Sicilian country girl I took in out of favor.”
Suffocating injustice and anger peaked, and I spoke before I could stop myself. “But you, you did, last night, you—”
“Fucked you? Consummated the marriage? Made sure you were a virgin like your father claimed and not a used whore?”
I could not breathe. I could not speak. I could barely nod.
His cruelty grew. “You’re right. I fucked you, and I ruined your Principessa status. You’re now less than useless to the Vincenzos. Not only are you a traitor in their eyes, but they can no longer auction your virginity to the highest bidder. Lucky for you, that makes you my insurance policy, which means you’re still useful to me. But don’t get any ideas if you become pregnant after last night. I will terminate the pregnancy.”
My life already destroyed, a new level of horror permeating my every breath, I dared to ask. “H-how am I useful?” Before a few hours ago, I did not have any experience with men except for one heated kiss from a green-and-gold-eyed Enforcer that had made my soul reach for his.
Now, I had horrifying threats hanging over my head to go along with a sickening experience that made me want to retch at the thought of ever going through it again. My only solace was that, unlike Erico, Ademaro had made no noise nor seemed to take any pleasure in his actions. He was also not attempting to touch me now. Praying it stayed that way, but having no faith in anything anymore, it made even less sense how I could possibly be useful to him or be an insurance policy.
Staring at me with unrestrained contempt, Ademaro sealed my fate. “If the Vincenzos come after me for their money, I will not hesitate to hand you over. That is your singular use.” Leaning toward me, he lowered his voice to a deadly threat. “But make no mistake, if they do get their hands on you, they’ll torture you for information before they kill you.” Standing back up to his full height, he straightened his cuffs. “Congratulations, you are now my sacrificial lamb.” Buttoning his single-breasted suit jacket, he turned toward the door. “Your room is at the other end of the house. Never come in here again.” With one last glance over his shoulder, he threw me a lethal glare. “And if you ever fuck another man while you are my wife, I will kill you.” He walked out.
Frozen in fear, I sat there for one whole minute before it struck me.
I was not a sacrificial lamb.
I was not a consecration for a higher purpose.
I was a scapegoat.
Sancia
Shoving down the memory and the horrible mistake I had made, I had to acknowledge the truth.
I did not know if I could survive this.
I should have trusted Erico all those years ago.
I should have left with the pilot.
I knew that now more than ever. Same as I knew that Erico’s anger, the way he was speaking to me, even the gun to my head—these were not the actions of a man who did not care. This was not Ademaro’s disdain. This was not the sickness of Giancarlo.
This was passion.
Erico Mantovani had meant everything he had said to me all those years ago.
He truly had been trying to save me. From his brother, from his family, from this life, and I had run straight into the very fire he had been trying to get me away from.
Ademaro had been right about one thing.
I had ruined three brothers’ lives. Not Papà, not that despicable Giancarlo, not even Ademaro or the Cosa Nostra.
Me.
And now that I knew Erico was alive and heard the fury in his voice that was so strong I felt it all the way to my soul, the fight in me and the will to survive that had propelled me forward, bringing me here—it was gone.
Everything was gone.
Shock, resolve, the reason I had stayed a pawn in Ademaro’s game, thinking every day I was held captive was a day Erico was free, the distant memory of those stolen moments at the villa, every emotion I had lived through, all of it drained away, leaving me only with his question.
Why the fuck are you here, Sancia?
With his impossibly commanding, dominant voice echoing in my mind, I barely lifted my head.
Then, for the first time in nine years, my gaze landed on Erico Mantovani.
Bedda Matri.
My heart stopped, my breath left my body, and I realized how very wrong I had been.
I was not out of emotions.
Staring in stunned disbelief, rendered speechless, every emotion I thought I had carefully packed away and then let go of, they all erupted at once before falling into complete despair.
He was covered—covered—in tattoos.
His arms, his hands, his neck, every inch of skin I could see was decorated as if he had been trying to disguise himself with ink.
A disguise he needed because of me.
But his eyes, the penetrating golden-green color of the Sicilian sun in late summer as it fell on olive trees was exactly the same. His jet-black hair longer, his face covered by more than a few days’ worth of growth, I could still see the angle of his jaw and how it had only become sharper with age.
And God help me, ink and all, age suited him.
He was beautiful.
The lines of anger between his brows, the muscles in his arms that had only grown in size, the hardened familiarity with which he held his gun—all of it made him who he was now.
A man aiming a gun at me.
I said the only thing I could. “I am sorry.”
Glaring with hatred so strong I could taste it, Erico said nothing.
Pain I did not want to feel struck so deep, I averted my gaze and looked toward the other man in the room as if he could possibly stop the horrible, crushing sensation that was so much worse than having no air and no hope.
Standing on the other side of his desk, holding my wallet and passport, staring at me with an impenetrable expression, Mr. Trefor did not look at me with hate, but neither did he look at me with anything close to compassion.
Not that I was expecting him to.
The man whose name I had overheard in conversations I never should have been privy to, the American who had been an altogether different kind of soldier than the ones I knew—he would not have survived the famiglias if he were compassionate.
He was the man you called when you could not trust your own blood. He was your last resort. He was the only force who had gone up against the Cosa Nostra and lived.
If you needed the impossible, Mr. Adam Trefor was who you called.
Except I had not called.
I had escaped death, evaded the Mantovani soldiers who had failed in their bodyguard duty, and left everything behind except my purse and the coat I had grabbed to hide the spray of splattered death on my dress. Then, as a panicked, last-minute grab, I had taken a gun from the dead Consigliere. I did not even know how to fire it, but I had grabbed it anyway and stuffed it into my purse.
Fleeing the chaos of the hotel suite as the soldiers yelled useless orders at one another, I had gone underground and disappeared into the sea of people who did not have armed drivers. Keeping my head down, riding four different subways, discreetly glancing everywhere to make certain I was not being followed, I had finally emerged back up to street level and hailed my first taxi. Minutes later, I had walked into a skyscraper in Manhattan, hoping to make it to the forty-seventh floor without getting shot.
