Page 113 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

I manage a weak smile, touched by her thoughtfulness. “Thank you.”

As I make my way back to my room, my mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Fear and excitement war within me, leaving me feeling jittery and off-balance. I shower quickly, the hot water doing little to calm my nerves.

When I return to the kitchen, Aydin leads me through the quiet house, down to a garage I didn’t even know existed. A sleek black car waits, its engine already purring softly. The driver, an Italian man I don’t recognize, nods respectfully as Aydin opens the back door for me.

As I slide into the plush leather seat, a wave of nerves washes over me. I’m really doing this. I’m leaving the safety of the mansion, venturing out into a world that thinks I’m dead.

Aydin leans in, her expression serious. “Remember, Addy. Keep a low profile,” she pauses, something softening in her eyes. “Take care of each other.”

I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat. As the car door shuts with a soft thud, a sudden chill runs down my spine. The plush leather seat, which was a symbol of luxury moments ago, now feels like a trap closing around me.

I can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong. The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow—I shouldn’t have left the mansion. I should have spoken to Sophie.

I lean forward, trying to catch the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Excuse me,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady, “how long until we reach Dante’s house?”

“About twenty minutes, Signorina,” he replies, his voice professional and detached.

I nod, settling back into my seat. His response was normal, expected even. So why does this feeling of dread continue to grow, coiling in my stomach like a venomous snake?

As we turn onto a main road, the driver adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. And that’s when I see it—a tattoo on the back of his hand, partially hidden by his sleeve. My breath catches in my throat. It’s like spotting a ‘Beware of Shark’ sign after you’ve already jumped into the ocean.

Having spent hours tracing the tattoos on Dante’s body and learning what different symbols may mean in the underworld, when I see the six-pointed star on his hand, cold fear grips me.

It’s one favored by the Irish Mob. “Turn the car around, please. I forgot something.”

“What did you forget, Signorina?” Perhaps because I’m now hyperaware, I catch something in his Italian accent, the barest hint of an Irish lilt, so faint it’s almost imperceptible.

My gaze flies to his. “Just turn around, please.” I try to keep my voice casual, like I’m asking him to pass the salt instead of potentially saving my life.

He watches me for a few seconds and casually looks away. And then there’s a soft click. The doors lock—or double lock.

Fuck. He knows that I know. “Stop the fucking car, you asshole!”

The driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and any doubt I had vanishes. There’s no warmth there, no humanity. Just a cold, calculated purpose.

Panic streaks through me as the clear glass partition between the front and back seats begins to rise. Just before the partition closes completely, the driver’s hand darts back, tossing something into the rear compartment. A cloth, I realize, as it lands with a damp thud on the floor.

The air immediately becomes pungent, a sickly sweet smell that makes my head spin. Through the partition, I watch in horror as the man removes what looks like nasal plugs from his nostrils.

Chloroform. The word flashes through my mind, accompanied by a surge of terror.

I lunge for the door handle, yanking it frantically even though I know it’s locked. With shaking hands, I unbuckle my seatbelt, using the heavy metal clasp to strike at the window. But it’s useless—the glass must be reinforced. It doesn’t even scratch.

The smell is getting stronger. I push the cloth as far away as I can with my foot, but I know it’s futile. Already, my movements are becoming sluggish, my thoughts growing fuzzy around the edges.

As my vision begins to blur, a face swims into focus in my mind—Aydin. I see the expressions on her face as she spun her tale about Dante. The ones I couldn’t decipher earlier. Now, with horrifying clarity, I understand.

It wasn’t concern. It wasn’t sympathy.

It was deception.

That’s the last coherent thought I have before darkness claims me, dragging me down into oblivion.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Dante

I adjust my AirPods as I navigate the familiar streets to Sal’s luxury condo, wishing I could replace the music with Addy’s voice instead. I need to be done with this fucking war, get her safe so we can be a normal couple. I want to be able to call her anytime. Take her out. Live with her.

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