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I recognize the change immediately. She’s preparing to move.

I need to keep Fabrizio talking, keep his attention focused on me. “You think my father will let you live after you tell him? You’re a loose end, Fabrizio. A liability.”

“I’ve survived this long by making myself valuable,” he sneers, taking another step backward, dragging Aria with him. “Information is currency in our world, and I?—”

He never finishes his sentence. Suddenly, Aria drops her weight, slipping beneath his arm and driving her elbow into his solar plexus. He doubles over, gasping, but tightens his grip on the gun. A fierce struggle breaks out as we both raise our weapons, desperate to stop D’Angelo—but in the chaos, we can’t tell friend from foe, and risk shooting Aria.

I lunge forward but freeze as the gun goes off, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.

The blast splits the air. My heart stops. For one breathless second, I think I’ve lost her. Then Fabrizio staggers backward, a look of disbelief on his face as he presses his hand to a spreading crimson stain on his chest. Aria stands before him, the smoking revolver now clutched in her trembling hands.

“You—” Fabrizio chokes, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “You fucking DeLuca bitch. You’re dead. You’re all dead once Salvatore knows?—”

I step forward, placing myself between him and Aria. “She’s not just a DeLuca,” I cut him off coldly. “She’s my wife. And you forgot what that means.”

Fabrizio’s eyes widen slightly, recognition of his fatal miscalculation dawning in them just before the light fades entirely. He crumples to the floor, blood pooling beneath him on the expensive carpet.

Silence descends, broken only by our heavy breathing.

I turn to Aria, my heart in my throat. “Are you?—”

The words die on my lips as I see her expression. She’s staring at me, the gun still clutched in her white-knuckled grip, her eyes burning with hatred.

The look reminds me, with a sick lurch in my stomach, of the look in a person’s eyes when they stare down an enemy.

“Aria,” I try again, reaching toward her.

She takes a step back, the gun not quite pointing at me, but not quite pointed away either.

“Don’t touch me.”

The three words hit me like physical blows. I drop my hand, feeling something vital crack inside my chest.

25

ARIA

The gun feels unnaturally heavy in my hand, still warm from the shot that took Fabrizio’s life.

My first kill.

I should feel something—remorse, shock, anything—but all I feel is the white-hot rage pulsing through my veins as I stare at Marco.

His green eyes, once a sanctuary I willingly lost myself in, now reflect the lies he’s built between us.

My husband.

My enemy.

The betrayal burns inside me, scorching away any tenderness that might have remained.

“Aria,” Marco whispers with an outstretched hand toward me. “Please?—”

“Don’t touch me,” I repeat, tightening my grip on the gun.

A part of me—the stupid, traitorous part—wants to collapse into his arms, to feel his strength wrap around me like armor.

He came for me. He found me.