Page 119 of Twisted Devotion

I sit up slowly, running a hand through my hair. My body aches, but none of it compares to the tightness in my chest. The empty space beside me feels colder than ever. Her scent still lingers in the sheets, in the air, wrapping around me like a ghost of what was. I exhale sharply.

I could go after her, find her, and bring her back. It wouldn’t take much. She left in one of my cars. She doesn’t know how to disappear.

But I need her to choose me.

I need her to choose this life.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and the cold floor sends a shiver up my spine. The room is too quiet, the kind of silence that settles deep in your bones. My eyes drift to the dresser, to the small gap in the closet where the few clothes she packed used to be.

She didn’t take much, so she’s not planning to be gone forever.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I can’t sleep, and the day passes in a blur.

I go through the motions—checking in with my men, reviewing shipments, and signing off on deals. Matteo updates me on the final territory changes after Marco’s downfall. He tells me Marco has booked a flight out of the city, but I don’t care.

I eat, but the food is tasteless. I drink, but it does nothing to quench the feeling of emptiness.

Everything feels distant.

Every time my hand drifts to my phone, I shove it back into my pocket. She needs space. I remind myself of that. I tell myself I won’t chase her.

And yet, it’s the hardest decision I’ve ever made.

I sent my men to keep an eye on her to ensure she’s safe and out of harm's way. That’s how I know she’s staying at a hotel and that she spent the afternoon at the bank inquiring about her accounts.

If it’s money she’s worried about, she shouldn’t be. I deposited a substantial amount when we married and will continue to give her more.

But that’s not what unsettles me. It’s not just about her being safe or financially secure. I don’t want her just surviving.

I want her with me. In my arms. As my wife.

And I need her to choose that.

A week passes, and I use the time to tie loose ends. I clear out the last of the Caldarone family and secure their territories under my control.

Tonight, I’m expected to attend an event hosted in my honor by one of the city’s most influential mafia families. I’m not the least bit excited.

At the far end of the lavish room, Chris De Luca stands with a practiced smile, arms spread in welcome. Unlike the Caldarones, he was smart enough to bend the knee rather than meet their fate.

“Nicolas,” he calls out, his voice warm—too warm. “Welcome! Tonight, we celebrate our new friendship.”

The room quiets. Conversations fade. All eyes turn toward me.

A server materializes at my elbow with a tray of aged Scotch—my preferred drink. Chris has done his homework. I take a glass, but don’t drink.

“Thank you for the hospitality,” I say, my voice measured.

Even as I speak, my gaze sweeps the room. Old habits die hard—I always assess every exit, every face. There are about two dozen people here, and all of them are watching us.

Chris launches into a speech, his tone smooth, practiced. “After the unfortunate demise of the Caldarone family and the, ah, transition of power in our region, we are eager to pledge our loyalty to the Paolo family.”

Unfortunate demise. A polite way to describe the bloodbath I unleashed. My jaw tenses at the mention of them, but I keep my expression neutral.

Chris continues, listing his assets—informants, smuggling routes—laying out his worth. He’s proving he’s an ally, not a threat. I nod occasionally, my face unreadable, my mind dissecting every word, every offer.

With the Caldarones eliminated and Marco Rossi—my own brother-in-law—forced into submission, I hold more power than anyone in this room.

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