Page 132 of The Ache That Stayed

But what would I tell him?

That I betrayed him?

That I hurt him?

The truth. Tell him the truth.

My fingers moved before I could think, dialling him, pressing the phone to my ear like it could hold me together. It rang once. Twice.

Then—

“Amore,” his voice came familiar, steady—home.

But there was tension under it. Noise. Voices in the background—sharp, overlapping. Movement.

“I’m sorry,” he added, quieter now, like he’d stepped away from whatever was happening. “Can this wait? I’m in the middle of something.”

I stilled. For a second, I forgot how to breathe. Because Marcello never did that. Not with me. Not unless it mattered. Not unless it was serious.

“Yeah,” I said quickly, too quickly, forcing my voice to stay level. “It’s fine. I just—nothing. I’ll call you later.”

He paused a beat before speaking again. As though he was weighing the tremor in my voice. But instead—

“I’ll see you soon.”

The line went dead. Silence pressed in, deafening, suffocating. I was alone again, with my thoughts.

And for a second, I just sat there, staring at nothing. Waiting for the calm that usually came with hearing his voice. It didn’t.

I barely made it to an empty paint bucket before it hit me. My body folded in on itself as I threw up, my hands bracing against the rim, fingers trembling. Until there was nothing left—but the burn in my throat and the violent shaking that wouldn’t stop.

My breath came in sharp pulls as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, vision blurring at the edges.

Santino.

Darius.

My stomach twisted again. Because he knew. My grip tightened on the bucket.

That picture—it was just one moment. One angle. One mistake. But how many more were there? How long had he been watching? The motel. The site. The cottage.

Had he seen everything?

The way I looked at Santino. The way I… responded to him.

My chest tightened painfully.

Did he know how far this had gone?

Or worse—did he only need enough to destroy me anyway?

My fingers curled into the metal rim. Because context didn’t matter. Not to him. Not to the kind of damage he wanted to do.

I knew what he was capable of. I knew how far he’d go, what he could do with it. And that was the thought that made my blood run cold.

I squeezed my eyes shut, bile burning my throat.

Tomorrow at three—I would walk into hell. And I already knew what it would cost me. Because if I didn’t go, he wouldn’t stop. He never had. And I couldn’t survive watching him destroy the people I loved.