Page 110

“Cazzo. I’ll find that fucker myself and burn him to the ground. No, no. Betrayal like that? In the famiglia? I’ll burn down everything he loves and make him watch. Who the fuck—”

I cut into his rant, knowing it could take more time than I had. “Luc will fill you in later, but I need to go over some things you two need to handle. You ready?”

For the next half hour, I listed out everything I needed them to take care of, starting with the most important thing.

Dahlia.

Chapter Sixteen

Web We Weave

Dahlia

Monday evening

I sat, dumbstruck, as I stared numbly at the TV. Theo had turned himself in for putting a man in a coma. At least that’s what the idiot news anchors had said.

They were wrong, though. Theo had been at my place. There was no way he could’ve snuck out of bed and made it across the city to beat a man up.

“Shit!” Rachelle cursed, practically running through the room to snatch the remote out of my hand. She turned the TV off.

It was too late.

“Theo. He’s…” I dragged my eyes from the black screen to look at her. She was focused on me, eyeing me cautiously and unconcerned with her son’s picture being plastered on the news. “You knew. You knew he was turning himself in.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “And I was going to tell you. Theo thought it should come from one of us, but I got caught up talking to…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Talk to me, you look pale.”

“They said he beat a man.” It was my turn to shake my head. “He wouldn’t do that. And he was with me. I have to go tell them that.” I started for the door, rambling to myself. “They have the wrong guy. Stupid mistakes happen, I’ll get it cleared up.”

Rachelle grabbed my wrist, halting my steps. “Dahlia, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

Knowing I can clear his name, I’m surprised Rachelle isn’t throwing me on her back and running me the entire distance to the police station.

“I’m missing something,” I whispered. Tears pricked at my eyes, panic and fear dragging me under. When she didn’t answer, I yelled, “What don’t I know?”

“A lot,” she said, her sympathetic and sad smile shattering my heart. “But you have to trust me on this, Dahlia.”

My head jerked back like I’d been physically slapped, my voice low and raspy. “No. Why would I? Why would I trust someone who would spend time with me, eat with me, all while knowing,” I pointed at the TV, “thatwas happening?”

“Sweetheart—”

“Why did you even help me pack up, knowing I was coming to an empty house? Just so I have to unpack in my tiny apartment again?”

“You can’t.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “It’s not your apartment anymore.”

“How?”

“Theo,” she said simply, like that explained everything.

It did, actually.

“My stuff?”