The club was empty when I walked in. Well, empty by its own standards. A bartender and a handful of cleaners moved quietly through the space, sweeping and wiping down the surfaces, preparing it for the night ahead. Sicily was never truly quiet. Even in winter, tourists still flooded in, trading their frozen cities for the wind and the muted warmth of the Italian sun.
"Signorina," the bartender greeted the moment he spotted me.
He was middle-aged, balding, with a thick mustache and the kind of posture that came from decades of keeping his head down and his mouth shut. He had worked for our family longer than I had been alive.
I turned and smiled. "Signor Russo," I said, walking over to the bar. It amused me that I remembered the bartender's name, but not the man who officially ran the place. "Have my gusts arrived yet?" I asked in Italian.
"Sì," he replied. "They're with Signor Marino. In his office."
"Thank you." I placed a folded wad of bills on the counter as he wiped down the empty glass.
"Don't bother, Signorina," he said, eyeing the money as if it offended him. "I've only been doing my job."
"Then consider it a bonus," I replied lightly, already turning away.
He shook his head, muttering something under his breath but pocketed the money all the same. Smart man.
I crossed the club floor, heels clicking softly against the polished concrete, heading toward the back where the VIP corridors began. The music hadn't started yet, but I could already feel it. The residual pulse of bass soaked into the walls, the ghosts of last night's sins still lingering in the air.
One of our men stood near the private corridor, expression neutral, eyes sharp. He didn't ask for confirmation. He only nodded once and reached out, pressing his palm against the wall.
The panel slid open soundlessly, revealing a narrow hallway hidden behind it.
I stepped inside.
The door sealing behind me with a quiet click, the noise swallowed by thick insulation. The hallway was dim, lit only be recessed lights along the floor, guiding me forward. I had walked this path just a few nights ago, the night they had taken Camilla.
At the end of the corridor, Marino's office door stood ajar.
My steps faltered.
Cigar smoke.
I slowed, my hand hovering near the inside of my coat as I nudged the door open.
Marino was on the floor.
Sprawled on his side, one arm twisted beneath him, blood dried along his temple. Unconscious, but breathing still, judging by his labored breaths. Is he snoring?
My gaze snapped up.
Alex was sitting on Marino's desk like he owned the place.
One leg crossed over the other, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A cigar rested between his fingers, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. His posture was relaxed. Infuriatingly so. Like this was a waiting room instead of the aftermath of violence .
He looked at me through the haze, green eyes sharpening when they met mine.
"Princess," he drawled, exhaling slowly. "You're early."
God, I hated it when he looked this handsome.
My pulse kicked hard against my ribs.
I looked back down at Marino, then at him again. "What did you do?"
He shrugged lightly, taking another drag. "He fainted."
I stared at him.
He smiled.
I closed the door behind me with a soft click, my hand easing away from the gun tucked beneath my blazer. I crossed the room, then stopped.
Sergio stood beside Camilla, her body slumped and unmoving in a chair. Unconscious. My gaze snapped back to my scheming husband.
Alex sat there like a king on a throne, cigar between his fingers, Marino still sprawled on the floor at his feet.
"I'm keeping my end of the deal, my love," he said smoothly, taking a long drag before exhaling a lazy stream of smoke. His smile was slow, deliberate. Calculated. "I trust you remember the one we made last night?"
Have him apologize to Camilla, I had said. Then I'll consider apologizing to Sergio.
"He took a risk coming here," Alex continued, rising from the desk and circling it, lifting his cigar. "Bringing your friend with him and all." He stopped in front of me. "Care for a drag?"
I stared at him. "Are you serious right now?"
"You look tense, Princess," he murmured, his hand sliding around my waist, drawing me in long enough to press a kiss to my temple. "Still beautiful, though."
I pushed him back, gently but firmly, and stepped out of his reach.
"What did you do to her?" I demanded. "And to Marino?"
His smile didn't fade.
"Does it matter?" he asked lightly, taking another drag of his cigar. He exhaled through his nose, a soft laugh following. "You wanted her here. Risky as it was, I delivered."
I ignored him and crossed the room, dropping to my knees beside the sofa. My fingers slid into Camilla's hair, brushing it back from her damp forehead. She stirred, her skin was slick with sweat. She wore a plain T-shirt and jeans, clean. No blood. Just bruises blooming along her arms and jaw.
She must've put up a fight. Good.
"She still won't cooperate," Alex said, his tone sharpening as he lost patience. His foot connected with Marino's side, rolling his unconscious body like it weighed nothing more than dead cargo. "Stubborn. Loyal. You really do choose your friends well."
I shot him a glare. "What have you done to her?"
That finally made him smile wider, too wide. He spread his hands as if offended by the question. "Nothing you wouldn't survive," he said. "A little pressure. A little fear. People are so honest when they realize no one's coming to save them."
I stood slowly, placing myself between him and Camilla. "What are you planning to do to her, Alex?" I demanded. "And what are you going to do with Marino like this? He has seen you."
"No, he hasn't," he said. "I only walked in once Sergio ambushed him."
I exhaled, exhaustion creeping in. I just wanted a break.
"You handle him," I said, pointing at Marino's unconscious body. Not gonna lie, seeing him like that felt like my pride was taking a hit. "Despite what it may look like, he's good at running this place. I still need him alive."
Alex hummed, amused. "Alive," he echoed, like it was a suggestion rather than a rule.
"But what about Camilla?" he asked.
His eyes glittered again with that same unsettling spark, excitement bleeding through where restraint should've been. "New York would be...inconvenient," he mused. "But keeping her here?" He tilted his head, watching me closely like a scientist waiting for a reaction. "That's the difficult part when you're not around."
He stepped closer, invading my space, his voice dropping to something intimate and dangerous.
"I'm letting you decide, wife."
I didn't look at him. Instead, I walked back to Camilla, resting a hand on her arm, grounding myself, as if to remind him who she was to me. We've been through shit together, along with Joshua. It was sad to think that our trio, was now broken.
"I was hoping you'd come up with a plan," I said coolly. "Preferably one that's better than what I already have in mind."
Alex's smile faded, just for a fraction. "And what would that be?"
"Benzodiazepines," I said flatly. "Drug-induced amnesia."
For a moment, he only stared at me.
Then, slowly, his mouth curved again.
Interested.