The Woman in the Trunk

But in the quiet moments when no one was around to command something from me, I could admit the truth to myself.

I was having trouble sleeping because I had no idea where she was, if she was okay, if she even knew I was alive.

Christopher had made no progress.

If she had gotten away on her own accord, she had done so completely. She hadn't shown up at the bakery, at her apartment, at her father's place.

She was a ghost.

And I felt her haunting me in those quiet moments when sleep was supposed to claim me. I needed rest. Food and coffee had managed to keep me going, built my strength up, but I knew I would be for shit if I didn't get some sleep.

I had a sneaking suspicion, though, that I wouldn't get a full, restful night of sleep until I knew what became of her.

Even if that meant she had started a new life out in California and wanted absolutely nothing to do with me.

Or, at least, that was what I was telling myself.

Even though a part of me knew I needed her there at my side.

My brain flashed back to the basement, to the terror on her face. But not for herself. For me.

She gave a shit.

She cared.

She wanted me to live.

I knew that, had I not gotten shot, if I had gotten her out of that basement, even if she went back to bakery, we would be pulled back together.

Something had started there.

Something neither of us was ready to give up.

"It's done," Emilio told me first thing the next morning.

He'd taken up residence in my old childhood bedroom, staying close, and I was surprised how little I resented the intrusion.

After all the shit that had happened in the past few weeks, I was glad to have someone I could trust right there when I needed him.

We'd sworn in his little brother Anthony a day before, and he had shown his loyalty by agreeing to go out and kill my father's old consigliere, Terry.

Eighteen was young by most standards, but I had blood on my hand for the first time at seventeen. So did Emilio. This was our world. We all had to age up faster than most men.

Besides, Terry was a reasonably easy mark. Older. Slower. Arrogant enough to think he wouldn't be a target.

"Did he have anything to report?" I asked. "We should probably have him over for a drink."

"He's actually on his way over. He said he figured something out, but didn't want to talk about it on the phone."

"Wouldn't be surprised. Terry was always up to something."

"How's the head?" Milo asked, rummaging through the fridge.

"Getting better."

"Are you going to be a pain in the ass about going back to the doctor?"

"No. I was in a rush to get out of there. I have questions. Need to know when I can hit the workout equipment again. I will go stir crazy locked up in here."

We'd agreed that I needed to stay inside at least until some of the intel was in about the other families. Especially since I wasn't at one-hundred-percent yet.

"Well, at least you can finally rip all this hideous shit out," Emilio said, waving an arm out at the house in general. "We will find a crew we can trust. Have Brio breathe down their necks while they work. They will be too afraid to do anything like eavesdrop."

"Yo, Milo," one of the guards out front called in from the door. "Your brother is here."

"Yep, let him in," I called. "He doesn't need an invitation here."

With that, there were muffled voices, a door closing, and a sound I wasn't able to place right at first.

But then it hit me.

High heels on hardwood floors.

High heels?

My gaze slipped to Emilio, finding his brows drawn together too, coming to the same conclusion.

We both turned to the doorway just as Anthony and—unexpectedly—Chris moved inside, faces both mirror images of surprise and uncertainty and a small bit of eagerness.

"What?" I asked, looking between them. "Did I hear heels?" I added.

The two men shared a look then both moved to the sides of the doorway, opening it up for our other guests to walk through.

Giana.

And my mother.

My mother?

"Your lady here has been a busy woman," my mother declared into the shocked silence of the room.

I barely remembered her voice, so lost in time, having been so young when she had disappeared. It wasn't soft and warm like Giana's, but rather cool and smooth and confident. Which matched her appearance—tall, slim, dark-haired, sharp-featured, green-eyed, wearing a simple black dress and heels.

I should have felt a rush of joy, of relief, maybe even of sadness over the lost years when I thought she was dead. All I could feel right then, though, was surprise, confusion, a complete lack of understanding of what I was seeing. It overtook anything else that had been moving through my system with this new piece of shocking information.