Page 67 of Tormented Oath

Matteo slides into the driver's seat, and I notice his knuckles are scraped. Fresh marks. Someone's already paid for what happened today.

I pray it wasn't Tony.

The engine purrs to life, and we pull onto the empty highway. Away from the Fioris. Away from Tony. Away from any chance of controlling what happens next.

"Where are we going?" I ask, though I know he won't answer.

He glances at me, expression carefully neutral. "You'll understand soon enough."

So, I watch the road signs instead, memorizing our route out of habit. West, then south. Back toward Chicago. Back toward Stefano.

Back toward whatever punishment he's planned for my betrayal.

My hand drifts to my stomach. It’s still flat.

But this child is the reason I can't run anymore.

* * *

Hours blur passed in silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the engine and occasional murmurs from Matteo’s earpiece. Each time it crackles to life, my heart jumps, waiting for news about Tony, about the Fioris, about whatever fate Stefano has planned for us.

The highway gives way to city streets, though not Chicago's. Different skyline. Different rhythm. My mind automatically identifies cross streets and landmarks, building a mental map I hope I won't need.

"You should try to rest," Matteo says, the first words he's spoken in over an hour. "It's been a long day."

A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up. Rest? When my brother's being held by the Fioris? When I'm being driven to God knows where by Stefano's right-hand man?

When my whole world is collapsing around me?

Instead, I say, "I'm fine," and keep watching the city scroll past us. More black SUVs have joined our convoy—three ahead, two behind. Whatever's waiting for us, it's big enough to warrant serious security.

My stomach rolls, and this time it's not morning sickness. It's pure, primal fear.

We pull up to a hotel. It’s one of those old-money places where the doormen wear suits. Black vehicles line the circular drive, their drivers standing at perfect parade rest beside their doors. Waiting.

"Matteo." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "What is this?"

He puts the SUV in park but doesn't turn off the engine. For a moment, he just sits there, hands still on the wheel, like he's choosing his words carefully.

"You made your choices," he says finally. "Now Stefano's making his."

"That's not an answer."

"No." He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. "It's a warning."

The simple statement sends chills down my spine. Because Matteo has always been kind to me, even after everything. For him to be this serious, this formal...

"Is he going to kill me?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

Something flickers across his face, surprise, maybe even hurt. "You really think he could?"

Before I can answer, my door opens. Another of Stefano's men stands at perfect attention, hand extended to help me out, like I'm a guest rather than a prisoner.

But the gun at his hip tells a different story.

Matteo appears on my other side, his presence both reassuring and terrifying. "Time to face the music, Ms. D'Amato."

The hotel lobby gleams with old-world luxury, but I barely notice. My attention is fixed on the men positioned at every exit, the cameras tracking our movement, the way the regular guests seem to instinctively shy away from our group.

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