Page 51

My fingers shake slightly as I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen's glow feels harsh in the darkness, but I force myself to focus. Time to be professional. Time to do what needs to be done.
I text Tony to check where he is and, unsurprisingly, he’s not at the motel.
>> Meet me at the club in one hour. Non-negotiable.
His response is immediate, full of teenage attitude.
>> WTF? It's the middle of the night.
>> One hour. Or I leave without you.
I turn the phone face-down before he can argue further. The guilt of threatening him sits heavy in my chest, but it's nothing compared to what I'd feel if I let the Fioris anywhere close to Stefano.
Beside me, Stefano murmurs something in Italian, his arm tightening around my waist. For a moment, I let myself imagine staying.
I imagine telling him everything, trusting that his love will be stronger than my betrayal.
But I've seen what happens to people who betray Stefano Rega. They call him the Monster. It isn't just a nickname.
You're protecting him,I remind myself.Him and the baby. Better he hate me for running than destroying himself trying to save me from the Fioris.
I start my exit with the precision of a master thief. First, carefully sliding out from under his arm, replacing my body with a pillow in one smooth motion. Then, gathering my clothes from where they landed earlier, each movement silent and deliberate.
The moonlight catches on his face as I dress, and I allow myself one moment of weakness. One moment to memorize the curve of his jaw, the scatter of stubble, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead.
One moment to remember him like this—peaceful, vulnerable.Mine.
Then I shut it all down. I lock away the emotions threatening to overwhelm me, focusing on the practical.
Money. Documents. Escape routes.
Time to be the professional my parents trained me to be.
Even if it kills me.
* * *
The penthouse feels different in these pre-dawn hours, all shadows and sharp edges where there was warmth before. I move through it like a ghost, gathering only what's essential.
My real ID. The cash I've saved from dancing. The small knife my father gave me, inscribed with our family motto.Survive first, feel later.
Ironic, considering how much my feelings are threatening to choke me right now.
My hand catches on the doorframe of his closet as a wave of dizziness hits. Morning sickness or guilt, I'm not sure anymore. The suits hanging there mock me with their perfect order. Everything about Stefano is ordered, controlled.
Except how he loves. That's as wild and dangerous as he is.
Slowly, I grab my clothes and head back to the living room.
The keys to his car, the one he gave me without hesitation, without demands, sit heavy in my palm. I place them carefully on his dresser, next to his watch and wallet.
I can't take anything he gave me. I can't leave any threads that might lead back to us.
In their place, I take the keys to my old clunker from my bag. The car's probably barely roadworthy, but it's mine. Clean. Untraceable.
My dance bag is still by the door where I left it earlier, before everything changed. Before the "I love you" and impossible choices. I check its contents automatically—clothes, makeup, the bare essentials I'll need until we can get somewhere safe.
I stuff the rest of my clothes inside and notice the burner phone protruding from the side pocket of the bag.