There was no way she would trust this man. He was a liar. A con-man. Conned her heart right out of her chest. Stole it away and left her empty, unable to trust anyone. The damage Rocco had done had forever changed her life. Right now, she wasn’t that fun, carefree spirit when they’d been together. She wasn’t the young and innocent Daniella. One who loved and laughed with abandon. He’d torn everything about her in two. His heartlessness had made her colder; made her unsure. Her confidence, her trust? ...Destroyed.

When he disappeared he ruined her.

He stepped into the hall now, his gun in his fist, his fist bulging out the side of his coat pocket. He waved her to follow. Looking at her like he cared. A stupid smug warm expression on his rugged face. Four years. Four years he left her wondering if he was dead or alive. Her big man. Her sturdy lover. Waving to her now like it was yesterday he disappeared. His carved jaw, pouted lips, narrow black eyes winking light at her from the halogen above. A kindness on his face. The most heartless man she knew. His kindness was some kind of mask he wore. What did she expect from a sociopath? She nodded, faking warmth just as he was. Two could play that game.

He guided her to the far side of the hall with his hand. Pushing her to walk at his hip on his left side. He put his hand up to cover her eyes. Below the edge of his big hard hand she could see two outstretched legs. Black wool suit pants, burgundy loafers with dead hanging tassels, the soles crusted with white flaking fringes of city salt. He’d killed Vito. Left him sitting with his legs splayed out in a bathroom hall four hundred feet above street level. Guy who she’d known and trusted for four years. Guy who took Rocco’s job when he left without a word. Didn’t deserve to end like this.

She stepped over his legs in her cheap flats he’d squeezed onto her. Rocco held her by her waist to steady her.

“I’m fine,” she said, and she squirmed from him. “I’m a big girl.” Still, she wouldn’t look back.

They came to the far end of the hall. There were two doors, one at either end. One at the other end would take her to a vestibule that led to the conference room where eight men sat with their own soldiers, waiting for her to return. One of those eight had ordered her death. The door they stood at now, at the opposite end, led out of the conference suite. On the other side of this door was a small marble tiled space and a polished black cherry table with an exploding bouquet of fresh cut flowers, a modern rectangular chandelier above. Past that, a broad double doorway, ten feet across. It would take them to a hallway leading from the suite to a bank of elevators.

“There’s guards out there,” she told him.

“They’re not gonna recognize me. Without the beard they don’t know who I am, probably. Not right away. We’re gonna walk through, you’re gonna dismiss them, not give them the time of day. You’re the boss, remember? Just keep walking, don’t stop and talk, just—”

“Then they’re going to think something’s wrong. If I’m rude—”

“You talk to them, don’t you?” he smiled like it had just occurred to him.

It pissed her off, like he was laughing at her. Dumb Daniella is nice to the help. So?

He said, “That’s like you, isn’t it?”

“I am who I say I am, yeah.”

His face went firm again and he was back to business. “Whatever it takes, Daniella, we have to get to those elevators without getting stopped. Do whatever it takes...”

His hand fidgeted in that bulging pocket again. He was readying his weapon. She could be nice. Get them out of here. Try not to get these young guys killed. She nodded to him. “I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Of course I can, asshole.” She set her face mean and focused, and nudged her chin to open the stupid door already.

“Hey,” he said, catching her gaze. “If they make a move towards you I don’t like, I will kill them. Don’t get in the way.”

She rolled her eyes.

As his hand turned the lever, she pushed through ahead of him, marching briskly across the marble and around the bouquet set on the gleaming table. Wished she had her heels. The height gave her confidence and the sound they made on stone made men pay attention. She padded through in flats, saw them, the guards, one on either side of the wide doorway. Two young guys. Younger than her. One, Jimmy, shaved head and wearing a suit, acting like he looked good in it. He did, better than the dumb tracksuit he usually wore when he was on the street. The other one, Mickey, a big Irish kid with ginger hair. He was friendly looking but the word around was he had fists of steel and a temper that got them up and swinging pretty easy.

They both bristled as they saw her as she was feet away from passing between them. Their attention had been facing outward, watching for threats coming from the stairs or the elevators. Not that there had been any trouble she could ever remember. Her father had kept this city’s pot from boiling over. They both had themselves slumped against the metal door frames, the two of them shooting the shit and they jacked straight when they saw her in an attempt to appear aware.

Jimmy said, “Daniella,” surprise taking over and addressing her without recognizing her authority. She could see Mickey bristle, right away noticing his compatriots blunder. She nodded curtly and strut between them, fixing one with her gaze then the other before she was past. She heard Rocco on her heels and she felt strangely comforted by his big presence. If he was right, someone wanted to kill her and it could be one of these two.

Straight ahead, jostling in her vision shaken by her stomping flats was the elevator. But Jimmy stopped her, said, “Hey, whoa, Dani—Don Nero...”

Mickey put his arms out like he was corralling her, not touching her, just slowing her down. She could tell his eyes were over her shoulder, eyeballing Rocco.

“I’m just going down to the car, Jimmy,” she said, sounding weak when she didn’t mean to. “Gotta get something…”

“Don Nero,” he said, his eyes now looking Rocco up and down. “You want me to go? ...Let me go down for you, I’ll bring it up or whatever.”

Rocco’s hand reached over her shoulder, opened wide, his massive spread as big as Jimmy’s narrow chest. His voice grumbled, “That’s how you talk to your Don? ...She said where she’s going. Let her go and get the fuck out of her way.”

Mickey, on her left, went from friendly to fierce with a hair trigger. His face pinched and he spit, “Who the fuck are you?”

Daniella turned to halt Rocco, saw him smiling as he said, “You want to find out?”

“He’s my guard, Mickey...he’s with me.” Then, turning back she said, “I’ll be back in a minute. I’m your Don.”

Jimmy said, “Where’s Vito?”

Rocco’s finger poked her in the back, between her shoulder blades. A reminder to be decisive, keep it moving or he would kill these two. What if he couldn’t? What if they drew first, killed both of them, her and Rocco.

“Vito? Vito’s inside...what the fuck you care? ...You two dating? Go stand over there by the door and watch for people coming. You’re worse than the fucking TSA,” she said, and she brushed past them, waving them away with a flicking of her hands, conjuring every bit of disdain her father had bequeathed her.

She strutted, still waving them aside, wishing for those heels again, and she felt pretty good. Rocco whispered, “That’s it baby, that’s it,” as they were clear and it made her mad to hear him talk to her like that.

She grumbled through tense lips, “I told you...”

“Told me what?” he said as he got himself beside her and they were closer to the elevator banks.

“Don’t call me bab—”

She was wracked by another fierce cramp. It made her steps falter and she worried what Mickey and Jimmy would do, so she stumbled through the pain.

“What is it?” Rocco asked her, his eyes glancing down but his head kept on target.

“Nothing... Something... I don’t know. It’s bad...”

“It’s fine,” he said, “it’s a cramp. Walk it off. It’s not serious.”

“What do you know?” she hissed through another piercing stab of pain.

“It’s nothing to worry about. If it gets too bad I’ll carry you.”

They continued, their steps in the marble hall echoing around them, her ballerinas, his big boots. She watched his stony profile. She couldn’t trust him. Knew she couldn’t. But he comes here with this crazy story and she gets herself swept up with him again... Was she being stupid?

Four years ago they were in love. She’d never felt the way she did for anyone else in her whole life. Hadn’t since. Rocco took her heart effortlessly. Puppy love turned infatuation, turned tumbling, bed sheet ripping passion, screaming his name as he railed that thing of his between her legs... Infatuation becoming obsession, obsession becoming something she never knew before. It was true love. She was powerless against him. She’d never met a man like Rocco. He was cold and callous like many of the soldiers who orbited her father. In many ways Rocco was the worst of them. But in secret he was hot-blooded passionate and strong. Loving and caring and tender, then dominant, bold, taking her with force. He made her knees weak.

Their love had been a secret. Their affair made exciting by its secrecy. They were insulated. The outside world was a cold hard shell, a steely crust formed around their burning molten metal love. Every moment spent with Rocco was a clandestine rapture, the time apart from him consumed with the question of when she’d next fall into his arms. She cherished their times together—ravenous trysts in hotel rooms, motel rooms, getaways, alleys, back seats of black Cadillacs. They got good at keeping their love hidden. Always under the surface, discovery just a dangerous heartbeat away. Then, when they both couldn’t stand their time spent apart, they agreed to throw it all away. They would give it all up. Together.

She would have given up her life as she knew it for this man. This handsome long-lost swain of hers, striding in squeaky rubber-soled boots with his finger on the trigger of a gun in his pocket. With his thick, shining black hair, and his strong, angular profile. A sharp ridge of brow pushed down over a solid masculine nose. Piercing black eyes focused ahead on the target. His soft lips, pouting and berry-colored, feminine, but made strong and masculine set above that hard chiseled chin and wide jaw.

Zakynthos. That was their plan. Greece. Far away from cold old Chicago. A place where the sun shone, a symbiotic place in harmony with their passion and their love for one another.

Laying satiated and naked in a bed in a shitty Interstate hotel she’d spoken the words and he’d said they would make it happen. She’d stared at the cracks in the tobacco-stained stucco ceiling and her soft scared voice finally drew the courage and asked him, Would you run away with me?

Two hot young things stuffed under stiff cotton sheets making plans to live a life they dreamed and doing it together. They worked it out in an afternoon. Greece. They would abandon all they had. Pool all the cash they could get their fingers on and they would elope. Disappear from the dark and tragic obligations of the Nero crime family.

That was an amazing month. A month filled with hope and love and this incredible feeling of dreams inexorably becoming manifest. Stolen glances that held a meaning so enormous but known only to them. They were giving it all up for each other. There was a countdown to their launch. Three days, two days... God, one more day and we’ll be together forever...

She waited for him at the airport where they were supposed to meet. He never showed. She waited and she cried and she worried. Watched out windows, searched over the heads of the crowds. Wandered the parking lot, the terminal... She went to his apartment. It was empty, cleared out. His phone went unanswered. Texts went unanswered. Did he change his mind? Did he not love her? Did someone come for him? Was he at the bottom of the Chicago River?

She went to Greece. Booked another flight the next day. Maybe there had been a mix up. She went to Zakynthos on her own and she wandered the streets, jostling against all the happy people, completely shredded inside. She went to the sea, touched her toes in the water like she’d dreamed. But alone, without her Rocco, its touch on her skin was like pain.

The loss was enormous. She swore Rocco was dead.

What did she really know about a man that would let her believe that? That would let her suffer like she did... Who was he really? What if this threat of death is a ploy and this is really a kidnapping. Of course he could have picked a better time. Fucking Sedona or something. Walked right into her private cottage at the ashram, no guards around, thrown her over his shoulder and knocked out any skinny sunburned hippy that tried to stop him. And he wouldn’t need to trick her, convince her, to kidnap her—he’d just knock her over the head. Or slip her something.

She stopped short of the elevator, her flats squeaking on the marble floor. She said, “Hey, did you...did you give me something to go to the bathroom?” But before he could answer she was stabbed again, as if her bladder knew she was talking about it. This time it came so fiercely she couldn’t stop herself from squawking loudly and folding over.

Rocco reacted at the same time she heard Jimmy down the hall. Rocco’s hand was on her back and he spoke her name with concern. So did Jimmy, shouted it from down the hall, his tinged with worry and the need for action. Jimmy and Mickey headed into the hall. She stood, the tension in her belly sharp still but easing. Her upper lip felt sweaty.

“Can you walk?” Rocco said low, “You need me to carry you?”

“I’m fine,” she said, pushing his hand away.

“Daniella,” Jimmy called again and now he was stepping their way.

“Not now, Jimmy,” she hollered, waving him away, but not showing him her face, knowing it would be twisted still from the pain.

They kept coming, and Rocco’s hand fidgeted in his pocket.