Page 110 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

The rhythmic thud of my fists against the punching bag echoes through the empty gym, a steady beat that matches the pounding of my heart. Sweat trickles down my back, soaking into the fabric of my sports bra.

I throw another jab, feeling the satisfying impact reverberate up my arm. My muscles ache, protesting the repetitive motion, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

It’s been five days since Dante left for Detroit, and the physical exertion is the only thing keeping me sane. Well, that and the constant reminder that I’m going to see the spawn of Chicago’s most dangerous today. Talk about life goals.

The gym is eerily quiet without Dante’s presence. No low, encouraging murmurs as he corrects my form. No playful banter as we spar. Just the sound of my labored breathing and the creaking of the chain that suspends the punching bag. I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t expect to miss him this much.

Or resent being off-grid this deeply. When he gets back, we’re so going to have a chat about this arrangement.

“It was fun while it lasted, Signore, but playing dead is no longer working for me,” I imagine saying to him.

I execute a particularly vicious right hook and a sudden wave of dizziness washes over me. The room tilts alarmingly, the polished wood floor seeming to rise up to meet me. I stumble, catching myself on the edge of the bag. The rough leather scrapes against my palm as I lean into it, trying to steady myself.

And then the now-familiar craving for ice hits me out of nowhere. It’s an all-consuming need, as if every cell in my body is crying out for it. I can almost taste it—the cold, crisp sensation as it melts on my tongue. My mouth waters at the thought, even as frustration bubbles up inside me.

Despite the pregnancy vitamins lined up neatly on my bathroom counter, this craving won’t leave me alone. It’s always there, lurking at the edges of my consciousness, ready to pounce at the slightest moment of weakness.

I rest my forehead against the punching bag, trying to catch my breath. My heart is racing, whether from exertion or the sudden onset of the craving, I’m not sure. Probably both.

I was hoping Dante would be back in time for our workout this morning. Thanks to being dead, he hasn’t contacted me again since he left, and I have only Nico’s constant reassurance that he’s fine.

I hate not having access to him.

The craving intensifies, pushing all other thoughts aside. It’s a physical ache now, impossible to ignore. I give in, unwrapping my hands with trembling fingers. The tape clings to my skin, sticky with sweat, and I have to peel it off slowly.

Breaking my routine feels wrong, like I’m admitting defeat. But the need for ice overrides everything else. I head for the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the cool marble floors.

The halls of the mansion are quiet, the early morning sun casting long shadows through the tall windows. Since that first morning when we had breakfast, I’ve found that everyone pretty much does their own thing in the morning and lunchtime and that morning’s attempt at breakfast was exactly as Dante called it: A sham.

As I enter the kitchen, I find Aydin standing at the corner of the island. She’s bent over and sniffing but straightens as soon as she realizes she’s no longer alone.

“Aydin?”

“Addy . . . um, Signorina O’She—” she stutters, her usually steady and unreadable voice trembling.

“Aydin, please, just Addy,” I reply, suddenly self-conscious of my sweat-soaked workout clothes and messy hair.

Without a word, she grabs a glass and teabag, pours some hot water, then darts to the fridge for some ice, and the soft whoosh of the door opens, filling the silence. She returns with a glass mug, condensation already beading on its surface.

“Cold tea on the rocks,” she says, offering it to me with a smile. Her eyes are clear and dry, almost as if I imagined her crying earlier.

I accept it gratefully. The ice clinks against my teeth as I take a long sip, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat. It’s not quite the same as crunching on pure ice, but it helps take the edge off the craving.

“Thank you,” I murmur, leaning against the counter. “Are you okay, Aydin?”

Aydin nods, turning back to resume polishing the marble counter, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

I watch her work, struck by the easy familiarity with which she moves through the space. It occurs to me that I know very little about Kira’s mother, who seems to be everywhere at once in the mansion.

“How long have you been with the family, Aydin?” I ask.

She pauses to look up at me. “Fifteen years.”

Wow. Fifteen years. That means Aydin must have known Dante since he was sixteen. When he was ‘the black sheep,’ as he said. Aydin must have watched Dante grow from a rowdy teenager into the man he is now. She probably knows Dante better than anyone.

“You must know Dante very well,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual.

Aydin’s lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. “I’ve known Signor Dante for a long time, yes.”

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