Page 96 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
I move toward the door on autopilot, the box clutched in my bandaged hands, and Erin grabs my arm as I pass.
"We will figure this out," she whispers desperately. "Please, Rosie, do not do this?—"
"I love you," I tell her, because it might be the last chance I get. "Take care of yourself. And the baby."
Then I am walking out of the room, down the stairs, through the house full of mourners, the bomb heavy in my hands and heavier in my knowledge of what it means.
Dante, Gabriel, and Luca are waiting by the front door, and the moment Dante sees my face, his expression shifts to alarm.
"What happened?" He is beside me in an instant, hands on my shoulders. "Rosalina, what is wrong?"
"Nothing," I lie, forcing my face into something resembling calm. "Just—ready to go home."
Gabriel's eyes narrow, flicking to the box in my hands. "What is that?"
"Something of Erin's," I say quickly. "She asked me to take it. Can we just—can we please just go?"
The lie tastes like poison, but I cannot tell them the truth. Not here. Not now. Not with Patrick somewhere in this house, his gun still trained on the people I love.
Dante studies my face for a long moment, and I can see him deciding whether to push or whether to call me on the obvious lie.
But then Gabriel steps forward and pulls me into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
"We are here for you," he murmurs against my hair. "Whatever you need, Bella. We are here."
The words are meant to be comforting.
Instead, they make everything infinitely worse.
Because in thirty-six hours, if I do what Patrick wants, Gabriel will be dead.
They will all be dead. And it will be my fault. I close my eyes, clutching the bomb to my chest, and let Gabriel hold me while my world falls apart around us.
Thirty-six hours. God help me.
21
ROSALINA
Two o'clockin the morning finds me lying in bed, staring at the ceiling of my doorless bedroom, listening to the house settle around me with creaks and sighs that sound almost like breathing.
I have not slept.
Have not even come close.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Patrick's face. His hand on my throat. The gun pressed against Dolan's spine. The casual way he tossed me a bomb and told me to kill the three men I love.
Twenty-eight hours.
That is how much time I have left. Twenty-eight hours until Patrick expects Dante, Gabriel, and Luca to be dead, or he kills Erin and Dolan and their unborn baby.
The bomb is in my closet. I hid it as soon as we got home, shoving it behind shoes and boxes and clothes I never wear, burying it under layers of fabric like that might somehow make it less real. But I can still feel its presence like a malignant tumorgrowing in the corner of my room, can still hear the ticking of a clock that does not actually exist.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Twenty-eight hours.
I cannot do it.
