Page 35 of Freed
I take it, tear it open, and slide the photograph into my hand. Elizabeth is standing in a kitchen I recognize from Russo’s house. Wide marble counters. Copper pans hanging against white stone. Morning light spilling through enormous windows. And beside her is an older woman I’ve only heard about in whispers and reports—Teresa. Russo’s aunt. The woman practically raised him.
They’re baking.
Baking.
Flour dusts Elizabeth’s cheek. Her short hair is pulled back carelessly, a few loose strands framing her face, and she’s laughing at something Teresa said. Really laughing. Head tipped slightly back. Eyes bright. One hand wrapped around a rolling pin like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
I stare at the photo until my grip bends the corner.
“She seems comfortable,” the man says carefully.
Comfortable. The word nearly makes me black out with rage. Comfortable in Russo’s home. Comfortable with his family. Comfortable enough to smile like that while I’ve been tearing through cities trying to find her. I should feel relieved she’s alive. That she’s safe. That she isn’t caged, bruised, drugged, or begging to be rescued.
Instead, all I can feel is something hot and filthy crawling up my throat.
I set the glass down before I shatter it in my hand. “Get out.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
The second the door shuts, I look at the photo again.
Teresa’s hand is on Elizabeth’s shoulder like she already belongs there.
I think of Elizabeth in my kitchen. In my house. In the life that should have been mine.
Then I think of Russo seeing her like this—soft, smiling, warm—and something murderous settles deeper into my bones.
The next photo arrives four days later.
There’s a boutique window in the background. White silk mannequins. Lace. Satin. A little gold placard with a designer’s name I don’t give a fuck about. Elizabeth is stepping out the front door with two women beside her, one of them Teresa, the other some dark-haired assistant or friend. Garment bags are being loaded into the back of an SUV.
Wedding dress shopping.
For one long second, I can’t breathe.
She’s wearing an oversized cream sweater that makes her looked washed out. There’s no smile on her face this time. Not exactly. But she isn’t crying either. She isn’t fighting. She isn’t looking around like she’s searching for help.
She looks calm.
And somehow that’s worse. Because fear I know how to handle. Fear I can fix. If Russo were forcing her, I could tear his world apart and drag her out of it knowing exactly what I was fighting.
But this? This quiet acceptance? It poisons everything.
I flip the photo over, jaw clenched so hard I hear it crack.
“What else?” I ask.
“The fitting is tomorrow. Russo’s people locked the place down.”
“Then buy someone.”
“We tried.”
I look up.
The man straightens. “We’re still trying, Boss.”
I stand and cross to the window, the city glittering below me like a field of knives. “Try harder.”
