Page 107 of Twisted Devotion

I can’t sit still.

I try. I curl up on the couch in Nicolas’s study, scrolling mindlessly through my phone. I even pick up a book from the shelves, but the words blur together, meaningless. Nothing can hold my attention. Nothing can quiet the storm inside me.

Everything I do feels pointless, only making the knot in my stomach tighten. My hands tremble as I set the book down, nausea twisting inside me.

I’ve never felt anxiety like this before. And the worst part? It’s not even for Marco.

I care if he survives—I meant it when I asked Nicolas to look after him. But it’s not Marco I can’t stop thinking about. It’s my husband.

The man who has shown me a kind of affection I never knew existed.

It’s because of Nicolas that my stomach is in knots, that my hands won’t stop shaking, that I’ve spent every second praying this operation is a success.

I press my palms against my face, exhaling sharply. I should be angry. I should be furious that he’s made me feel this way. But I’m not.

I am terrified.

Terrified of how deeply I feel for someone like Nicolas. And even more terrified that I never got the chance to tell him.

He has to come back. He has to.

I push off the couch and head to the kitchen, hoping that movement—any kind of distraction—will quiet the storm inside me.

Teresa is there, chopping vegetables at the counter. Her strong hands move with steady precision, her gray-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun. She’s the only maid I ever speak to.

The others scurry away when they see me, avoiding my eyes as if making contact with me might bring them bad luck. Teresa doesn’t exactly meet my gaze either, but at least she doesn’t run.

I lean against the counter, gripping the edge as I try to steady my breath. “Do you ever worry?”

She doesn’t pause. “Worry about what, Mrs. Paolo?”

I chew my lower lip. “About the men. About… them not coming back from these operations.”

“It’s not my place to worry about the boss’ job, Mrs. Paolo. I just do mine,” she replies, her voice even.

A lump rises in my throat, but she finally looks up before I can say anything. Her sharp eyes study me momentarily before she offers a small, knowing smile. “But I also trust the boss. And so far, he has always come back. He’s a capable man.”

Her words offer a sliver of comfort—probably the reason she said them—but it’s not enough to stop the gnawing dread in my stomach.

He’s returned every time before, but what if something goes wrong?

What if this time is different?

What if Marco does something reckless?

I shift on my feet, watching her slice through a tomato. “But what if one day, they don’t come back? What happens then?”

Teresa sets the knife down and turns to me, wiping her hands on her apron. “Then what difference does worrying make, Mrs. Paolo?”

I press my lips together.

She exhales, shaking her head. “You are young. You do not understand yet. But you will.”

Her words do nothing to calm me.

I leave the kitchen and start pacing the hallway. Back and forth. My nails bite into my palms, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip. My chest feels too tight, my hands too cold.

I need to do something.

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