“And what will be?” Dante demands. “You want to kill him, and his men? How many more people will we lose trying to do that?”

“I don’t know. But you’re insane if you think they’re just going to leave the rest of us alone. They meant to kill every single one of us. We only survived because you were there, and they didn’t expect it.”

Dante shakes his head.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he says. “I promised Simone I was done with this. I promised her I wouldn’t come home covered in blood ever again. Now look at me.” He holds up his bandaged hand with its two useless fingers. “I’m not starting another cycle of violence.”

“It’s already started!”

“I don’t care.” His voice is firm and final. “I have two children, Seb. I hope to have more. I missed out on nine years with Simone. I want to live every second I have left by her side. If anything had gone differently at that wedding . . . Simone would be getting a phone call instead of her husband home on a plane. I won’t do that to her, or to Henry and Serena. My daughter doesn’t even know me yet, Seb. I won’t have her grow up with just a photograph for a father.”

“And what about the rest of us?” I ask him.

Dante looks at me with his black eyes so like our father’s.

“I love you, Sebastian,” he says. “I always will. But Simone and my children are my family now. I have to put them first.”

I can’t believe he’ll actually leave. Not now, when we need him the most.

But he’s already hoisting his suitcase, picking it up as easily as if it were empty.

“Be careful, Seb,” he says. “This isn’t like robbing that vault, or even your wedding. I won’t be there to save the day. I’m not coming back this time.”

I stare at him, unbelieving.

He starts walking toward the hotel room door. I watch his broad back striding away from me.

Then, right as he turns the knob, I call out, “Wait!”

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder without letting go of the door.

“I love you too, brother,” I say.

20

Yelena

Greta comes back down to the cell several more times to bring me warmer blankets, food, drinks, and an assortment of books from Enzo Gallo’s library.

One of them is The Name of the Rose, a mystery novel Enzo and I had discussed at length when we went for brunch together. I can tell from the creasing on the spine and the soft, slightly battered pages that he must have read it many times.

It feels wrong to hold Enzo’s book, and read through it, when he won’t ever get the chance to enjoy it again.

Yet, reading it is strangely comforting too, in a way I probably don’t deserve. It brings back our conversation so vividly. The way Enzo spoke to me, as if I were an equal, and listened to my responses with real interest. The way he put his warm, dry hand on top of mine, and said, “There’s no pleasure quite like reading, is there? Sometimes it’s the only thing that eases my mind.”

Now I feel how true those words were. Reading this book is easing my mind, when nothing else could. I get lost in the 14th century, in the world of the Italian monks. And finally, I’m calm enough to go to sleep again.

When I wake, it’s impossible for me to tell what time it is, day or night. There’s no windows, no natural light whatsoever. And of course, no view of the stars.

In the artificial light of the cell, I remember how comforting astronomy always was to me. I looked up at the sky and it was so infinite and vast that it made even my father seem insignificant by comparison. The stars were so beautiful, and so untouchable by anything on earth. They represented the idea of something more . . . of endless possibility.

And then, that night that Sebastian kissed me on the Ferris Wheel, they came to symbolize Seb himself. He was that hope, that love that I’d looked for. He came into my life like that first glimmering star I glimpsed right above our car. I lost my virginity to him on the beach, under a sky studded with stars. And he proposed to me in the dome of the planetarium, with the whole universe whirling around us.

That’s why I chose the dress I did—because it reminded me of a little piece of the cosmos. It seemed to symbolize how powerful our love was. That it was untouchable by my father, or anything else.

But I was wrong.

My father destroyed it all, in one moment.

And now I’m down here in this cell, without any sun or moon or stars. Because they’re snuffed out. Because Sebastian doesn’t love me anymore.

I hear the creak of the latch, and I sit up, thinking that Greta has come back with tea, or soup.

Instead, Sebastian opens the door.

Even though I know he hates me now, the feeling that springs up in my chest isn’t hate in return. It’s swift and desperate longing. I still love his face. I still love his frame. I still love those dark and searching eyes, even if they’re scrubbed of all affection for me.

“Where’s your clothes?” Sebastian says.

He glances at my near-naked body, then quickly looks away again.

“I can’t put on the pajamas,” I say. “Because of these.”

I hold up my hands to show the manacles around my wrists, and the chains that extend outward to the wall.

“Oh,” Sebastian says.

He considers for a moment, then strides toward me. He takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the four manacles, one by one.

He has to come close to me to do it. Close enough that I can smell the achingly familiar scent of his skin. My heart hammers against my ribs, like a fist beating against the bars of a cage.

As the restraints snap free from my wrists, Sebastian sees that the skin is red and raw in places where it rubbed. I see the wince of guilt that flashes across his face, before he smothers it.

“Has Greta been feeding you?” he says.

“Yes. She’s taking care of me.”

I see his eyes flit over to the bandage on my shoulder. This time he can’t quash the look of unease on his face. I was shot trying to save him, and he knows it. It doesn’t make up for what I did. But it means something, all the same.

“Why are you keeping me here?” I ask Sebastian.

I want to know if he plans to kill me. Because if he does, he might as well do it now.

“Why?” he snarls. “You want to go home to your father and brother?”

“No,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re my husband,” I say quietly. “Whether you like it or not. I belong to you . . . or to no one. I’m never going back to that house.”

I still have Sebastian’s ring on my finger. He didn’t take it off me. It glimmers there . . . like one tiny star that has yet to be snuffed out.

Sebastian’s face is a maelstrom of emotion. I can’t read them all. There’s definitely anger there. And maybe, maybe . . . sadness, too.

He takes a moment to compose himself before he says, low and cold, “I want you to tell me everything you know about your father’s business. The name of every one of his bratoks. Every one of his holdings. I want to know where he operates, how he operates, where he stores his drugs, his guns, his money. I want to know his friends and his enemies. Every secret he’s let slip. And don’t tell me you don’t know, Yelena—I know how clever you are. Whether he’s explicitly told you or not, I know you’ve seen things. If you lie to me about one single thing . . .”