Page 59 of Runaway in the Mafia (The shadows of Cosa Nostra Chronicles #3)

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

AHANA

M y feet dragged on the gravel as his car took off with a burst of its engine. A distant roar and a cloud of dust was all that remained. As temporary as the bond between us had been.

The front door flew open, and Ada rushed out.

Somehow, seeing her brought it all back.

It really is over. I had wanted to control everything.

Up to how I told Pāpā and when I did it.

In that battle for his safety, I had somehow lost the one thing that had brought me back from the hellhole I had been in.

Him. Realisation hit me like stones in my chest. My knees buckled and hit the gravel.

Sobs retched out of my lungs. Next to me, Ada fell to her knees and held me in her arms.

Vaguely, I thought how different she was from Maa.

She held me and let me sob it out. She didn’t ask why, where, when, or what.

She didn’t tell me to pick myself up and crawl back to my husband.

But that was probably because she knew. There wasn’t any hope of him ever accepting me back.

Vitale loved like a lunatic. But when hate infiltrated his heart, he raged like the devil.

Unforgotten. Unforgiven. That thought made my heart rip apart.

So we sat there, under the hot sun of Sicily, on the dusty gravelled path, the only noise my heart-wrenching sobs.

Eventually, even my glands dried up. Only dry heaves remained of a disastrous day. Finally, I gathered up the courage to stand up. Ada held on to me, and together we hobbled inside. When the front door slammed shut behind me, it felt as final as the end of my short-lived marriage.

“Your room is still here for you,” Ada said.

I nodded and pulled myself up the stairs. I didn’t know how she knew me so well, but without me telling her, she knew I wanted to crawl into my bed and bawl under my sheets. And that’s exactly what I did. In my dress, stained with dust, I hid from the world I’d destroyed and wept.

My first marriage fell apart through no fault of mine. But this was all on me. And the only direction I could point with my fingers was right back at me.

My conscience didn’t prickle. It screamed accusations.

Somehow, somewhere, I’d lost the plot. Not deciding was deciding.

I’d decided to shield my family. Used one excuse after another not to risk losing them, and in that single action, pushed the man I loved away.

The same one who loved me back. Tirelessly.

Even though I’d pushed him away countless times.

Stood on my tiptoes to run away at any given time.

He hadn’t said those words. Not even close. But buried deep within his hard fucks, dark glares, and harsh words, something sparked so brightly I could see it like a veil lifted off, and the Maharaja’s heirlooms were on display.

Overwhelming guilt flooded into my mind.

When I finally told Maa that Rajesh beat me, her response had shocked me.

Changed me. Ripped the naivety I’d carried off me.

Suck it up, Ahana. My mother, who was supposed to protect me no matter what the cost. Who should have loved me.

Unconditionally. She let me down that day and every day that passed.

Only one who didn’t was the man I’d hurt through my actions.

He killed him without a single doubt. Didn’t even have to prove anything.

Give him the sordid details of how, when, and where. He believed me. Just like that.

I’d been insulted by Maa so many times. Too many to count. Yet once was all it took for him to pull his knife and drop his uncle to the floor.

He chose me. Every single time.

Even Pāpā had stuck to traditions. He hadn’t allowed me to work. And he’d followed through with an arranged marriage, even though he should have known in his heart of hearts that I wasn’t ready for it. He’d allowed Maa to persuade him. Gone ahead and done what society announced was normal.

But Vitale had defied his, so he could marry me.

Tight emotion burned in my throat. Made my eyes gush with a fresh batch of tears.

He chose me.

But he let me choose my path.

Or did he?

But the phone next to me never rang. A call from India never came in. It just lay still next to me. As dead as my heart. No messages. No calls.

He knew my parents’ numbers. I was sure he’d had them for a long time. If he could track Rajesh down, he knew who my father was. Yet he hadn’t picked up the phone. Hammered out the details in black and white. He’d done nothing.

Because he’d let me handle it. Trusted me to do it.

I sat upright with a jerk. My head spun with details. He had really waited for me to tell him. Even if he had known I wasn’t telling him everything. My obsessed, demanding, arrogant husband had waited for me to be ready.

When he could have pressed that button and told my parents so easily what had happened. He hadn’t.

And something told me he never would.

If I wanted him, it was going to be up to me. He wouldn’t push me. He wouldn’t force me to choose between my family and him. Even when he had done it for me.

I’d only known his arrogance. His demands. His possessiveness. From the first time I’d sighted him when he’d said to rock up to him, he’d done nothing but shove me against the wall.

But somewhere in there, I’d not seen how lightly he’d pushed. Or how he’d stepped away so I could take the lead when it mattered to me.

If this wasn’t love, I didn’t know what was.

But I’d realised it too late. He’d let me go instead of holding me tight. The moment he did, I floated around without a lifeline to tug me back to him.

Lia brought me dinner. I left it untouched. I didn’t eat. Couldn’t. Food was the last thing on my mind.

It was seven in Sicily. Just past eleven in the night in India.

Lia was lost. She didn’t know how to comfort me. She hadn’t experienced the rollercoaster ride of love to understand it. She tried to cheer me up. Her words slid off deaf ears. I rocked on the bed. Silent tears spilling from my eyes relentlessly. After some time, she gave up and left me to it.

A rustle of movement, and Ada was in the room.

She brought a suitcase packed with my clothes.

It was dark outside. Ten in the night. Just past two in the morning in Delhi.

She didn’t take sides. She didn’t say anything.

Only squeezed a file in my hand. My hands shook as they flipped it open, and I found bank statements staring at me. An account under my name and hers.

“Vitale set it up for you, so if you ever want to leave, you can.” A thick tear smeared the papers and soaked through them. Her words carved through my chest. “He told me to tell you it’s okay to leave if you want,” she said quietly.

He’d given me the choice. Again. My fanatic control freak of a husband had given me the choice. Of all the people, he’d understood how important it was to have that choice when you’d stepped away from an abusive marriage.

I didn’t sleep. I watched the clock with an obsession as heavy as Vitale’s with me.

The number of times I’d caught him just looking at me, like I was the most precious thing he owned, filtered through my memories.

When the hands hit five a.m., mine were clutched around the phone.

Eight thirty in Delhi. I made myself wait.

For five more agonising minutes. Then I hit the call button.

Four times it rang. I held my breath the entire time.

“Pāpā.”

“What is it, beta ?”

He only called me daughter when he knew something was wrong. He knew it already from the vibration of my tone.

“Can I come home?”

“Of course.” No what. Why. “I’ll get Ayaan to book a flight.”

I nodded. Even if he couldn’t see me. “Can you not tell Maa?”

“It’ll be our secret, beta .”

I barely hung on until I was done with the call. Then I let sobs tear me apart. Again. He’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. I just need to see him. Face to face. One hour later, I walked out of the house with a note to Ada resting on the kitchen table.

Giuseppe dropped me off at Palermo airport. The fact that he didn’t ask questions or stop me from going said enough. He was giving me the choice.

I transferred in Rome. Then I hid underneath the blanket and cried all the way from Rome to Delhi.

The first thing that hit me when the cabin doors opened at Indira Gandhi International Airport was the heat.

The humidity. The smell. That made it uniquely India.

I stood at the threshold, burning my hand on the hot metal staircase railing.

I should have felt at home. All I felt was a deep yearning for a dryer climate, calmer streets and limestone walls. And the man behind them.

By the time I made it out of customs my legs wobbled like toothpicks. My vision was a blur. I had everything planned. I was going to come clean with one piece of bad news at a time.

Then I saw him, and I choked up. Pāpā at the end of the metal railing. My luggage rolled off, and I flew into his arms.

He wasn’t as strong as before, but there was only ever one home aside from the one I’d left behind.

In my father’s arms. His hands were soft on my hair.

He held me tightly as I sobbed, burying my face in his shoulder.

The rush of Delhi buzzed around us. People moved, horns tooted outside.

But he didn’t move. He let me have as much time as I needed.

Only when I lifted my head up did he cup my face.

His eyes were sad but tender. “I’ll take care of it, whatever it is, theek hai. ”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“Let’s go.” And I allowed the driver to collect my bags and followed him out of the airport.