Chapter 4
Francesca
The pit under the Benedetti estate was built for traitors.
Filthy water came up to my waist, reeking like something dead. My hands were chained to the wall above my head. Every breath pulled at my broken ribs. The pain never stopped.
I'd been down here two weeks.
No one had come. Just moldy bread thrown down through the grate, and water that smelled like sewage. The gash on my head had started to rot. Between that and the cancer doing what it always did, I couldn't tell anymore if I was alive or already gone.
Noise filtered down through the vent overhead.
Tomorrow was the wedding.
I tilted my head back and found the thin shaft of light coming through the grate. Snow outside. A single flake drifted down and landed on my nose. The cold hit me like a slap—just for a second, I was awake.
He was finally getting married.
Finally the king of New York's underworld. Beautiful wife. Everything he ever wanted.
And me? I could finally die in peace.
Footsteps on the stairs.
The door swung open. Alex came down, sharp black suit, face unreadable.
"Lucy lost the baby." Flat. No setup. "Doctor said it was trauma from the fall."
I tried to lift my head. My lips were cracked, barely working.
"I didn't push her..."
"And you're still making EXCUSES?" He crouched down and grabbed my hair, yanking my face out of the water. "Really?"
"Alex, I swear—I didn't—"
He slapped me. Hard. My ears rang.
"It's DON BENEDETTI." His voice dropped to something worse than a shout. "You don't get to call me that anymore. You lost that right."
Blood filled my mouth. My vision swam.
"If you hate me this much," I said, barely above a whisper, "why not just finish it?"
His eyes went cold and flat.
"You want out? No. Not yet." The smile that crossed his face had nothing warm in it. "You're going to stay alive. And you're going to HURT. Until you get down on your knees and beg me to end it."
He let go. I dropped back into the water.
"Every single day, you're gonna wake up and regret what you did to me. I'm gonna make sure of it."
I laughed. It came out broken. "Guess you really do hate me that much."
"Last chance." His jaw was tight. "Do you regret it? Throwing everything away for that Irish BASTARD?"
I closed my eyes. Tears mixed with blood and ran down my face.
Seven years ago, that rainy night—Isabella had staged the whole thing. Made me say those words to his face. Made me pretend I'd fallen for that Irish spy. Arranged the fake elopement, down to the last detail.
Alex watched me "betray" him with his own eyes.
I never thought he'd come after me. Never thought he'd walk straight into the trap.
"You wouldn't get it," I said quietly. "Some things you just do. Right or wrong doesn't come into it."
"What the hell does that mean?"
I looked at him. That face I'd loved for ten years.
"If I could do it again—I'd make the same call."
He froze. One second. Then he came apart.
His fist hit my face. "You're STILL thinking about him? After ALL of this?"
My nose broke. Blood everywhere.
"I spent three years in an Irish prison. THREE YEARS, Francesca." He kept hitting. Couldn't stop. "Every night I had to see you with him in my head. EVERY. NIGHT. I wanted to burn the whole world down."
I was dying. I could feel the edges of it. But there was something like relief in it too. Just let it end.
I coughed. Black blood came up and dissolved into the water beneath me.
Alex stopped. Stared at me.
"Make the most of it." His voice went dead. "We'll finish this when I'm back."
He turned and walked out.
Time came apart after that. My vision blurred. Sounds dropped away one by one.
Images surfaced without warning.
Alex stepping in front of a bullet meant for me. Alex's hands around a diamond necklace on my birthday, fumbling with the clasp. Alex, eyes red, voice low—Frankie, when I'm boss, I'm marrying you. I swear to God.
My lips moved. "Alex..."
The spaces between heartbeats stretched longer.
Be happy.
And then it was quiet.
At the cathedral.
Alex stood in front of the mirror while the tailor worked, face blank. Outside, black armored cars lined the street. Every major crime family in New York had shown up to watch.
"Boss, Miss Ferraro's ready to go." His second appeared at the door. "She's doing okay physically, but the miscarriage hit her hard. She's been asking for you."
"Tell her I'm coming." Alex pressed two fingers to his temple. Francesca's face kept surfacing in his head—eyes vacant, hair hanging in the dirty water. He couldn't shake it.
He'd been off for days. Restless. Couldn't land on anything.
"Hey—what's the situation with Francesca?" he asked, not looking up.
His second hesitated. "Still in the pit. We haven't sent anything down in a few days. Nothing coming back up either. Since it's your wedding day, you want us to pull her out, or—"
"Leave her." Alex's voice didn't change. "She's not going anywhere. I'll handle her when I'm back."
He reached up to fix his tie.
Then his chest caved in.
The pain hit without warning—brutal, total, like something had been ripped clean out of him. Alex doubled over, one hand slamming against the mirror to stay upright, face white, cold sweat breaking across his forehead.
"BOSS—" His second grabbed his arm. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Alex couldn't answer. He just breathed. The pain lasted seconds, but it left behind something worse—a hollow, dead weight sitting in the middle of his chest. Like a door had shut somewhere and wasn't opening again.
He straightened slowly. Looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes stung.
He didn't know why.
The church bells rang out across the snow.
Alex took a breath and pushed open the door.
