Page 121 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

But it’ll take several hours, if not days, to extract her. I need better. I need a fucking demon who can do it in minutes.

I tell Sal while leveling Nico with a stare, daring him to contradict my next words. “Sal, get me Cade Quinn.”

“Absolutely not,” Nico says, deadly soft. “Since we already know where Addy is, all we need is—”

“Cade fucking Quinn!” I roar. “Now, Salvatore!”

Nico stares me down for a full minute, then snaps. “Fine.” He stalks out of the room, obviously not wanting to be here when I speak to Cade.

He pauses at the door and throws behind him, “We’ve had enough. Call everyone in. We move within the hour. The moon rises red in Philly and Boston tonight.”

I love you too, fratello.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Adele

Cold.

That’s the first sensation that penetrates the fog in my mind. A bone-deep, teeth-chattering cold that has me curling into myself before I’m even fully awake.

The next is the pounding in my head, a relentless drumbeat that makes even opening my eyes an uphill task.

When I finally manage it, the world is a blur of unfamiliar shapes and shadows. I blink, trying to bring things into focus. A four-poster bed looms around me, its dark wood starkly contrasting with the bare mattress beneath me. No sheets, no blankets. Just me, shivering in my lacy pink underwear.

Where the hell are my clothes?

I push myself up, ignoring the wave of nausea that accompanies the movement. The room spins for a moment before settling. It’s large, opulent even, with high ceilings and what looks like antique furniture. But it’s not my room. Not Dante’s suite.

Dante.

His name brings a flood of memories. The gym, Aydin’s deception, the car ride. And then . . . the pungent smell. The cloth. The driver’s cold eyes in the rearview mirror.

My stomach lurches, and this time it’s not from the lingering effects of chloroform and whatever else drug they used on me. Aydin. Aydin did this. Has she been working with the bombers all along?

And Dante. God, he’ll be livid. I can almost see the rage in his eyes and the tension in his jaw when he realizes I’ve been kidnapped.

A new smell cuts through my spiraling thoughts—food.

My gaze lands on a table across the room, laden with an array of dishes. My stomach growls traitorously, reminding me that I have no idea how long I’ve been unconscious. But the memory of that drug-soaked cloth is too fresh, the taste of fear still bitter in my mouth. I’d rather starve than let them poison me.

The soft click of the door opening has me tensing, every muscle coiled tight despite my weakened state. But it’s not a threat that enters—at least, not an obvious one.

A small woman with a round face and bone-straight black hair steps into the room and bows slightly. Her smile seems genuine, but the sadness in her eyes makes my chest tighten.

“You wake,” she says in broken English, her voice gentle but laced with an undercurrent of something I can’t quite place. Pity? Fear?

“Eat?” She gestures toward the table.

I shake my head, fighting another wave of nausea. The woman’s smile doesn’t falter, but something in her eyes dims. “I, ah . . .” She clears her throat and tries again. “I help you dress,” she says, moving toward what I now realize is a closet door.

Dress? For what? Although I’d take any kind of clothes over being half-naked and freezing. The thought dies as she emerges, holding something that makes my blood run cold and my heart stutter in my chest.

A wedding dress.

It’s beautiful, an ivory confection of satin and tulle, tiny rhinestones catching the light like teardrops. In another life, I might have gasped in awe. Now, all I can do is stare in horror as the pieces start to fall into place.

Dante’s words from what feels like a lifetime ago echo in my head, a cruel mockery:

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