Page 4 of Broken Wolf Heart (Mafia Pack #3)

LEXI

I don’t remember getting into the car. I don’t remember the drive. All I know is, one second, I’m standing in a church with my marriage vows still warm on my lips, and the next, I’m being dragged up the marble steps of a house that isn’t mine.

No, not a house. A mansion. A goddamn empire.

The Giovanni estate is everything I imagined it would be—cold, grand, and suffocating.

And that’s just my impression from the outside with its white concrete walls, imposing arches, and multiple stories offering balcony overlooks with iron railings.

Not to mention the grounds that seem to sprawl as far as I can see in either direction.

None of the windows have bars on them like Vincenzo’s house did, but there’s something intimidating all the same. A sense that, once you go in, you don’t come out unless the person in charge of this place allows it.

Inside, gilded sconces line the endless white walls, casting eerie, golden light onto high, vaulted ceilings. The floors beneath my feet are pristine marble, polished so smooth I can see my reflection staring back at me .

Massive portraits of men I don’t know, men who ruled this mafia pack empire long before I ever existed, glare down from their brushed bronzed frames, their eyes full of the same judgment I’ve been drowning in since the moment I arrived in this city.

My father’s name isn’t among them, but then, he didn’t live long enough to become an alpha.

The house is opulent. Immaculate. A museum for a legacy built on blood and control. And even though Franco lived here, even though my father would have grown up here, it feels nothing like a home.

It feels like a tomb.

My stomach churns as Toros leads the way up a grand, winding staircase. At the second-floor landing, we turn left, and I follow him down an endless hallway to a large ornate door at the very end. He pushes it open then steps back, ushering me inside with a scowl.

The animal inside me cringes at showing this man our back. But I do it, too afraid of what he’ll do if I don’t play along. Rather than leave me alone, he steps in behind me, and my heart squeezes with fear as I turn to face him.

This is it.

This is where I die.

On an expensive rug where generations of Giovanni blood has probably already been spilled before me. Where more will undoubtedly be spilled again.

The bedroom is cavernous, the furniture dark and heavy.

A four-poster bed looms in the center, too big, too gaudy.

There are no personal touches, no warmth, just expensive things meant to impress.

The air is too cold. The scent of polished wood and leather mixes with something fainter—something rotten.

Franco lived here.

And now he’s dead.

A fact that should bring me some kind of relief, but instead, all I feel is the sick, pulsing weight of my future pressing down on my shoulders. I’m hyper-aware of the fact that my future might only last me the next ten seconds.

Toros takes a menacing step toward me. There’s no trace of welcome or civility. Only calculated ice.

“What are you doing?” I blurt, hating that I take a step back. But it’s either that or let him invade my space, and I refuse to allow that kind of violation.

He ignores my words—and me—and brushes past me to fling open another door behind me. Through the opening, I glimpse a walk-in closet full of suits. I inhale the scent of Franco. He’s everywhere in here. Reminding me I’m the intruder.

“Closet’s here, bathroom’s through there,” Toros says flatly. He sweeps a pointed gaze down the length of my wedding dress. “Get changed, and meet me downstairs.”

“Where am I supposed to get changed?” I ask.

He looks at me like I’m a complete moron then flings his arm out to gesture to the space. “Here.”

“Here?” I echo.

“This is your room now.”

My room.

Right.

Toros turns for the door. “You have ten minutes.”

The way he says it sends a cold shiver down my spine.

Ten minutes for what? To live? To explain how I killed a man I didn’t actually kill? I don’t ask, don’t let myself react, but even as he shuts the door behind him, my body betrays me.

Suddenly, every nerve is on fire, every hair on my arms and neck standing on end.

My senses come rushing in with a roar in my ears.

From up here, I can sense six others inside the house.

More than that, I can smell their breath, hear the way their heartbeats thud slow and steady in their chests.

The lace fabric of my dress scratches at my skin like needles.

My mouth is dry. My lungs feel too tight.

Panic claws at my insides, a sharp and sudden fear that I’m about to come undone right here, right now. My wolf is close to the surface. I can feel her teeth in my skin, the low, rumbling growl curling inside my ribs, demanding release.

With a strangled snarl, I tear at my dress.

The buttons and snaps are impossible to reach, which only makes me more desperate to be free of the stifling layers against my skin.

My nails lengthen into claws, and I tear through the lace and tulle, shredding it until I stand in only my bra and panties with a pile of luxury fabric at my feet.

My chest heaves with breath after breath as my blood swims hot inside me.

I’ve traded the dress for my wolf. A husband for a pack. Happiness for duty. Somehow, I always knew this was how it would go. Even before Ramsey forced me to spy on Grey, I understood nothing would ever be so easy as remaining in Jericho Grey Diavolo’s arms.

Ramsey.

Who is probably selling me out at this very moment to Vincenzo and his generals, detailing every covert thing I did to betray them. Once that truth is out there, I’m as good as dead anyway.

I only hope I can find a way to warn Grey it’s coming. Maybe then he can be ready to face his father rather than get caught up in the crossfire. The last thing I want is for him to get hurt because of me.

The beast inside me stirs as if even the thought of Grey being threatened is enough to unleash her.

Downstairs, someone curses, and my sensitive ears pick it up easily.

I jolt back to the task at hand.

Four minutes left .

I step out of my shoes and pad into the closet. My stomach sinks as I take in Franco’s clothes. Starched white shirts. Expensive silk ties. The scent of his cologne clings to the fabric, sharp and acrid. There’s nothing here for me.

I can’t breathe.

At the back of the closet, I clutch the edge of the armoire, fighting the pressure in my chest, the rising heat under my skin. My fingers dig into the wood, and for a second, I swear I feel my nails sharpen, my bones shift.

No. Not yet.

A knock at the bedroom door startles me, and I poke my head out of the closet just as it opens.

Andy.

Toros’ wife. I met her only once, briefly, at a funeral.

Closer to my age than she is her husband’s, she struck me then as far too young and sweet to be a willing love match for the monster she’s married to.

But I was very wrong once already, and I’m not willing to let my guard down so easily again.

I cross my arms over my chest, still hovering half-inside the closet. “What do you want?”

She steps inside, a bag slung over her arm, her brown eyes wary but not unfriendly as she sweeps the bedroom.

“They left you with Franco’s clothes?” she asks, her voice laced with something close to disgust.

I swallow hard, nodding.

She sighs and holds up the garment bag. “Good thing I figured they’d be assholes about it.”

She walks over, placing the bag on the bed. When she turns back, her gaze lingers on my face, my still-shaking hands, and her expression softens.

“You don’t have to be scared,” she says, but there’s no mockery in her tone. Just quiet reassurance.

I force out a breath. “Are they planning to talk or to kill me? ”

Andy studies me for a long second before shaking her head. “They’re not going to kill you.”

I want to believe her, but I know better.

“They’re loyal to Franco,” I say.

Andy’s lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she nods toward the bag. “Come on. Get dressed.”

With resigned steps, I walk over and pull out the outfit she brought—a simple dress, black and sleeveless, with a skirt that ruffles out loosely. Expensive fabric, elegant but plain. Easy to move in.

“We’re close enough to the same size. And it beats wearing one of your grandfather’s suits.”

I don’t argue as I yank the dress over my head. It fits well enough, hugging my frame without suffocating me. Most importantly, the fabric is smooth and soft and doesn’t make me want to claw it off my body or peel my skin off with it.

When I’m done, I shove my feet back into my shoes and stand before the mirror, studying my reflection. My gaze is hollow, but my face is flushed, and my chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Heat still sings through my veins even if I’m managing to mostly ignore it.

Through the reflection, Andy watches me, arms crossed. “I know pants would be more practical, but I think projecting your feminine power is smart.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I say when I finally meet her gaze.

“Do what?”

“Help me.”

Something flickers across her face, too quick for me to name. “You’re not my enemy, Lexi.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t think your husband would agree.”

She tilts her head, studying me. “He will. Eventually.”

I don’t know what to say to that .

For the first time since walking into this house, my chest loosens, just slightly. Not because I feel safe but because—for now, at least—I’m not alone.

And that has to be enough.

Toros is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Andy slips around me to tap his arm. I can only stare at where she willingly touches him.

“What do you think?” she asks him, gesturing to me.

Toros’ phone dings. He glances at it then at me, and merely says, “We need to go.”

“Go where?” I ask, my heart thudding as reality presses in again.

“Pack meeting,” he says as he starts for the door with Andy still at his side.