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"That's an expensive request, girl. More so than your first question."
"I don't have that kind of money to throw around. I don't know what you've heard, but I—"
"Listen, Nicola," Lonzo interrupts, his tone firm. "If you want to find Giovanni, you already have an avenue—the same one you've always had."
"I don't know what you mean," I lie, though I know exactly what he's suggesting.
"Raffaele knows more than anyone about Giovanni," Lonzo says, his voice dark and knowing. "That's all I'll tell you for now. Call back when you're ready to pay for more."
The line goes dead, and a heavy sense of dread settles over me. If I want to help Gio, I need to speak with him directly. Maybe hearing my voice will give him the strength to fight back, to know he's not alone.
But the thought of calling Raffaele fills me with dread. Memories of his cruelty, his violence, and his threats flood my mind. I've spent years trying to escape his grip, and the idea of confronting him again makes my stomach churn.
That afternoon, Jaime is eager to practice checkers. He's been learning the game over the past few days, and he's determined to get his first win. We sit at the kitchen table, the board between us, but my mind drifts elsewhere.
"Nicole, is this a good move?" Jaime asks, pointing to a piece.
I glance at the board, barely registering the question. "Um, yeah, that's a good move," I say absentmindedly.
Jaime frowns, sensing my distraction. "Are you okay, Nicole?"
His question pulls me back to the present, and I force a smile. "I'm sorry, buddy. I just have a bit of a headache. How about we pick this up later and watch a movie instead?"
"Okay," Jaime agrees, though he makes me promise not to move the pieces while we take a break.
As we settle on the couch, the weight of everything presses down on me. The more I try to grasp at solutions, the more it feels like my world is unraveling. My carefully laid plans are slipping through my fingers. I can't tell Shane the truth—it would endanger him and everyone around us. Lonzo's ominous remark about Shane keeps replaying in my mind. If someone like Lonzo can figure out that I'm with someone wealthy, then others can too. It's not just my safety on the line anymore; it's Shane's and Jaime's as well. The realization leaves a cold pit of dread in my stomach.
That night, Shane is working late. I tuck Jaime into bed, his innocent face a stark contrast to the turmoil inside me. I try to smile as I kiss his forehead, but my mind is elsewhere. I retreat to my room before Shane gets home, needing to avoid any questions I'm not prepared to answer. I send him a quick text, explaining that I'm dealing with "womanly issues" and feeling a bit grumpy, so it's best if we give each other some space tonight. I make sure to assure him that it's nothing to do with him and that I can't wait to see him in the morning. It's a flimsy excuse, but one I hope will keep him from prying.
Lying in bed, my thoughts race. Every scenario I run through leads me back to the same, inescapable conclusion. I've done everything I can to avoid this moment—spent nearly all mysavings, called in favors, tried to dig up information through other channels. But it's no use. Raffaele is an inevitability, a shadow that's loomed over me since the day I left Italy. The more I tried to evade him, the tighter his grip has become. I should have known it would come to this; he likely planned it this way all along.
My hands tremble as I dial his number. The phone barely rings before he answers, as if he's been waiting for this exact moment.
"Hello," he says, his voice sickeningly sweet, a tone I know all too well.
"Hi, it's Nicola," I reply, my voice unsteady despite my efforts to sound composed.
"I know," he responds, his tone almost dripping with satisfaction. "I'd never forget your voice."
"Where's Gio, Raffaele? What has he gotten himself involved in?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, though the fear is gnawing at me.
"Gio is not a child anymore, Nicola. Your innocent little brother is making a name for himself, and not in the way you might have hoped," he says, his words laced with a twisted kind of amusement. "Much like you with your fancy restaurants and yacht parties. I'm a little offended, actually—you never sent me an invitation."
His words strike like a knife, confirming my worst fears. The paranoia I've been feeling, the unease that's been following me—it's all justified. He knows far more than I'd like to admit.
"I need your help," I say, swallowing my pride. "Please don't make me beg for it. I've done everything you've asked, made every payment since I left. The least you could do is let me talk to my brother."
There's a pause on the line, and I can almost hear the satisfaction in his silence. When he speaks again, his voice is dripping with triumph. "I knew you'd come back to me, Nicola. You always do."
His control over the situation is evident, and he's not shy about flaunting it. I feel a shiver run through me, not from fear but from the realization that he has been watching my every move, waiting for the right moment to tighten his grip.
"I can help you," he continues, "but first, let's take some time to catch up. How about you start by sending me a nice picture of yourself? I've only seen you from a distance recently."
"If I send you a picture of my face, you'll put me in contact with Gio?" I ask, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.
"I think it's much more likely that I will," he says, his voice smooth and confident. "But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. And make sure you smile big and brightly in the picture. You've looked so sad the past few days."
His words send a wave of revulsion through me, but I know I have no choice. The thought of sending him a photo, knowing he'll get some sick pleasure from it, makes my skin crawl. But if it brings me closer to Gio, it's a price I'll have to pay.