Broken Strings: The Mafia Wife’s Exit

The heavy metal door to my holding cell crashed against the wall.

It wasn't Dante.

It was Mia. My maid. My bodyguard. The only soul in this godforsaken, frozen city who gave a damn whether I drew breath or suffocated.

She had a serrated combat knife gripped in one hand and a Glock in the other. Her face was streaked with soot, her eyes wide with urgency.

"Principessa," she breathed, rushing to me. With a swift motion, she sliced the ropes binding my wrists. "We have to go. The engine is running out back."

"Dante is in the next room," I whispered. My voice was a rusted scrape against my raw throat.

Mia froze.

She looked at the wall, then back at me. She saw the devastation in my eyes. She didn't ask. She knew.

"Then we leave him here," she said grimly. "He stays."

We didn't get the chance.

We were halfway down the hallway when Dante stepped out of the adjacent room.

He looked infuriatingly impeccable. His black suit was unwrinkled, his dark hair perfectly styled. The only sign of his recent activities was the slight flush on his neck and the wild, frantic energy in his eyes.

He wasn't carrying Sofia. She was walking behind him, looking pale and fragile, clutching his jacket like a lifeline.

Dante's eyes landed on me.

They were cold. Glacial.

He didn't look at the blood on my arm. He didn't look at the bruises blooming on my wrists.

"You," he said. It wasn't a greeting. It was a verdict.

"Me," I replied. I straightened my spine, ignoring the scream of my battered muscles. I was a Vitiello. I would not cower.

He crossed the distance between us in two long strides. He grabbed my upper arm, his grip bruising.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" he hissed.

I stared at him. "Find out what?"

"That you arranged for her to be taken," he snarled, jerking his head toward Sofia. "That you paid those men to drag her out of the estate so you could have me to yourself."

My mouth fell open.

Behind him, Sofia buried her face in her hands, sobbing quietly. "I told you, Dante. She hates me. She told me I was a leech."

"I did no such thing," I said, my voice trembling with rage. "I was kidnapped too, Dante! I was rotting in the room next door while you were playing Romeo!"

"Liar," he spat. "My men found you untied. Mia was walking you out."

He looked at Mia. His hand went to his waistband, where his gun sat.

"Don't." I stepped in front of Mia. "She saved me. Which is more than you did."

Dante released me with a shove. I stumbled back.

"Get in the car," he ordered. "We are going home. And then we are going to settle this."

The drive back to the estate was suffocating, silent as a tomb.

I watched the Chicago skyline blur past the tinted windows, gray and indifferent.

When we arrived at the mansion, Dante carried Sofia inside. He ordered the doctor to attend to her immediately.

He left me standing in the cavernous foyer, a ghost in my own home, with dried blood crusting on my sleeve.

I walked up the grand staircase, my legs feeling like lead. I went to my room. I needed to wash the filth of this day off my skin.

But when I opened the door to my suite, I stopped.

Something was wrong.

The room was too empty.

My eyes darted to the corner by the window.

The stand was empty.

My cello.

My mother's 1710 Matteo Goffriller cello. The instrument that was worth more than this entire house. The instrument that held the last remnants of my soul.

It was gone.

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through my veins.

I ran to the closet. Empty.

I ran to the hallway.

"Mia!" I screamed.