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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

DANTE

T he wood grain beneath my knuckles offers no comfort as I knock on Aurelia’s door for the twentieth time in twenty-four hours. Each tap feels more hollow than the last—a futile gesture against the impenetrable barrier she’s erected between us.

“She was never who I truly wanted,” I say. I’ve just finished my fourth attempt to explain everything through the door, the reason I married Bianca, though I’m not sure Aurelia is actually listening.

“Aurelia.” My voice remains calm despite the storm raging inside me. “You need to eat something. At least take some water.”

Silence answers. The same deafening absence that’s met every attempt since yesterday.

I press my forehead against the cool surface of the wood, allowing myself three seconds of weakness—no more. The methodical counting has always grounded me, but now even this small ritual offers no relief from the vice crushing my chest .

“Please. Aurelia, please.”

I love you, I want to beg.

A faint rustling comes from within—the first sign of movement in hours. My pulse quickens as footsteps approach.

“Go away.” Her voice is hoarse and worn around the edges. “Just leave. I don’t want your explanations.”

The pain in her tone cuts deeper than any physical wound I’ve suffered.

I’ve survived a bullet from my own mother, endured my father’s cruelties for decades, and navigated the treacherous waters of the Consortium—yet nothing has left me as devastated as the hurt I’ve causes Aurelia and her refusal to open the door.

“Aurelia, I?—”

“I said go away!” Something crashes against the door—a book, perhaps, or a shoe. “I trusted you! I believed everything you said about keeping your distance to protect me, about loving me all those years. It was all lies!”

Each accusation hits its mark. The most damning part is that I can’t entirely argue against them. In my many calculated decisions, marrying Bianca remains my most regrettable miscalculation.

“My feelings for you were real. Are real. I love you with everything I am.”

A bitter laugh filters through the wood. “Save it for your wife .”

The reminder of my marital status tightens the knot in my stomach. Bianca. A complication I’d never intended to become so catastrophic.

I should have anticipated this scenario.

Why didn’t I ever consider this future possibility—Aurelia and I together?

I should’ve applied the same strategic foresight I’ve used to help Lucian manage the Consortium all these years.

But when it comes to Aurelia, my typically flawless analysis has always been compromised.

I slide down to sit against the door, my legs finally surrendering after hours of vigilance. When was the last time I ate? The hunger is inconsequential compared to the hollow ache of knowing Aurelia is just feet away, yet completely beyond my reach.

My mind drifts to Bianca, to the series of decisions that led to this situation.

I met her three years ago at a charity auction in Toronto—the soft-spoken daughter of an Italian weapons dealer whose family had been petitioning for a Consortium membership for decades.

Her father, Alessandro Colombo, controlled one of the largest private arsenals in Europe. A strategic alliance seemed prudent.

At the time, I was already formulating plans to reform the Consortium from within.

My relationship with Aurelia had grown increasingly strained—her unhappiness was clear despite my efforts to shield her from the worst of my family’s world.

She was also in love with Julian—had always been in love with Julian—and I was simply the acceptable alternative.

Or so I believed at the time.

The Colombo family’s resources presented a solution to a problem I hadn’t yet solved: how to amass enough firepower to force change upon an organization built on violence. So I cultivated Bianca’s interest, encouraged her affections, and ultimately proposed a union that would benefit us both.

The wedding was a small affair in Milan—nothing that would draw attention from the Consortium leadership. Father, my mother, Julian… were all kept in the dark.

Bianca was ecstatic; her family celebrated their impending rise in status. I returned to Seattle the following day, to Aurelia, to the charade I maintained to keep her safe.

I never consummated the marriage. Every time I paid Bianca a quick visit, I made excuses about stress, about work, about needing time. Bianca accepted my explanations with surprising patience, perhaps believing that love would eventually follow commitment.

A tactical error so profound it staggers me even now. How could I, with my meticulous planning, not have foreseen this collision course?

The answer is simple and devastating: I never imagined Aurelia could love me. I never permitted myself to envision a future where she would look at me the way she used to looked at Julian. A future where she would choose me.

After my “death,” I contacted Bianca only once—to explain the necessity of maintaining the illusion. She seemed to understand the gravity of the situation and promised discretion. I should have known better than to trust emotional assurances over contractual obligations.

One single mistake that might cost me the love of my life. My Aurelia.

“Adrian. ”

I glance up to see Lorenzo. He stands at the end of the hallway, concern etched in the lines of his face. “You need to rest. Sitting by her door won’t help either of you.”

I remain seated. “I can’t leave her.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” he says, approaching slowly. “Give her space to sort through her thoughts and feelings. You’ve dropped quite the bombshell.”

My jaw tightens. “I was planning to tell her.”

“When?” Lorenzo crouches beside me, his voice lowered. “After Francis? After DeSean? After you’d crossed every name off her list and she was fully invested? When exactly was the right time to mention you have a wife?”

The criticism stings precisely because it’s justified. I’ve always prided myself on timing—on knowing exactly when to strike, when to retreat, when to reveal information. Yet with Aurelia, I’ve repeatedly miscalculated.

“I thought I had more time.” The admission tastes of defeat.

“You can’t approach her like one of your strategic objectives.” Lorenzo sighs and pats my shoulder. “She deserves better than that.”

“I know.” My voice drops to barely above a whisper. “I never wanted to hurt her. Truly.”

“Your intentions are irrelevant right now.” He stands, extending a hand to help me up. “Come. Eat something. Rest. Then we can discuss how to fix this situation.”

I take his offered hand and let him help me up. The rational part of my mind acknowledges the wisdom in his advice. The animal part—the part that loves Aurelia beyond reason or strategy—rebels against every step that takes me farther from her door.

As we turn the corner, I cast one final glance back. The hallway is empty, quiet except for my ragged breathing and the muffled sounds of Aurelia’s grief.

I would trade all my careful plans, all my resources, all the power I’ve accumulated over a lifetime of calculated moves, just to hold her again. To erase the pain I’ve caused. To prove that despite my many failures, my love for her remains the one pure truth in my life.

But some mistakes can’t be undone with words alone.

And this realization—that I might have lost her forever through my arrogance—is a devastation more complete than any I’ve ever known.