I stop pacing, my hand trembling as I shove my fingers through my long red hair, trying to calm myself, but I know that he’ll be back soon. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it now. “I have to do this,” I say, and my voice is strong and sure. I turn and stare at a tall mahogany dresser that matches the bed I so hate at my back. My chest expands on a huge breath, and I walk to the dresser and sink to my knees. I dig through lingerie, beautiful, delicate lingerie, and uncover a black box. And I don’t let myself think—I open it and display the gun I’m after.

The image fades, and I gasp with the impact of what I just felt, shocked to find I’ve sunk to my knees, as if I was in front of that dresser all over again. And I’m trembling, like I was that night. I remember that night. What I felt. What I thought I had to do. I shove off the sink and reach for the gun, checking the ammunition chamber to ensure it’s loaded, and I do it with the ease of someone familiar with weapons. Someone who would know how to use one to kill if she so chose. Or needed to.

I place the gun in my purse and zip it up, folding my arms in front of me, a burn in my chest as I look at the woman in the mirror, and I was right. I don’t know her. “What did you do, Ella?” I whisper, and then grab the sink again to yell, “What did you do?”

eight

I begin to pace the bathroom the way I had his bedroom that night, my hand pressed to my forehead. “I killed someone. I killed him.” I stop walking and face the mirror, reprimanding myself. “Stop saying that. You didn’t kill anyone.” I look to the ceiling. But what if I did? My knees go weak, and I sink to the edge of the tub and press my hand to my belly. It makes sense that it had to be something this bad for my mind to shut down as it has.

I bury my face in my hands and think of Gallo and the fingerprints. My hands drop to the ledge of the tub. How does Niccolo connect to this? Did he know the man I think I killed? Is he hunting me for revenge? Or is he the man and I didn’t kill him? I just tried? No. I wouldn’t be with a gangster. Unless . . . did I not know who, and what, he was? No. I didn’t kill him. My stomach rolls. I might have killed him. I have to tell Kayden. Now. Before the truth is exposed and Gallo finds some way to take Kayden down with me. I push to my feet and stand there. I don’t want to tell him. I have to tell him. I have to tell him.

Stiffening my spine, I face the door and start walking, and I don’t stop. I exit the bedroom and start down stairs that in daylight I can tell are some sort of frosted glass, the railing stainless steel. Reaching the bottom level, I step across shiny white tiles and enter a living area that feels modern and chic, with light gray furnishings. I step farther into the room, finding no one around, amazed to find a walkway running above my head and the entire length of the room, also made with the etched glass-looking material.

There is another stairwell leading up to that second level, but I choose a door to my left that I’m gambling leads to the kitchen. Once I’m there, I consider knocking, but it’s a kitchen, not a bedroom, and Kayden did tell me to come down when I was ready. I push open the door, and, holding it open, I bring another white and gray room into view, with three men gathered at a round, all-white island.

To my left, Nathan, Kayden’s doctor friend, sits on a high-backed gray bar stool, his brown hair styled neatly, his blue suit and tie obviously expensive. To my right sits a man who is his polar opposite, with wavy, longish dark brown hair, his features chiseled, the slogan on his obviously worn black T-shirt in Italian. And standing in the center, directly across from me and the only one of the three I truly care about right now, is Kayden.

My eyes meet his, and I feel the connection punch me in the chest. His expression is tight, his eyes hard, and everything that happened between us an hour before is in the air between us now. The kiss. His hand on my breast. Him naked in the shower. But mostly, his anger. “Can I talk to you alone, please, Kayden?”

“Nathan’s on a tight schedule,” he says. “He wants to check you out before he leaves.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “I feel a lot better.”

“Not for long if we don’t get some additional medicine in you,” Nathan assures me. “And I need to evaluate you before I give you additional drugs.”

That gets my attention, and I look at Nathan. “The pain is going to come back?”

“Not if we keep you medicated.” He pats the stool. “Come sit.”

My lips clamp together, and I bite back everything I want to say to Kayden and cross to the island, claiming the seat and giving Kayden my back in the process. “Let me get a few supplies out of my bag,” Nathan says, and I nod, glancing at the dark-haired man in the seat across from me.

“Ciao,” he says, giving me a two-finger wave, surprising me with a fleeting glimpse of a box-shaped tattoo on his wrist, with script up his forearm. “I’m Matteo.”

“Hi, Matteo,” I greet him, trying to figure out why he and Kayden have matching tattoos. And what do they mean? “Thanks for letting me stay here.”

“Always happy to help a pretty woman,” he assures me, motioning to Kayden. “And as a bonus, now Kayden owes me a favor.”

“You owe me at least ten,” Kayden reminds him.

“At least it’s not eleven,” Matteo rebuts, winking at me, and I like him. Actually, I like Nathan as well, but neither of them feels even remotely familiar the way Kayden does.

“Okay,” Nathan says, “I’m ready for you.”

I rotate to face Nathan, who’s now to my left, which means I’d be eye to eye with Kayden if Nathan wasn’t standing between us, us holding up a small light. “I just need to check your pupils.” He flips it on and tilts my chin up, giving each eye a check and popping the light into his pocket. “They look good,” he says, his hands sliding to his hips under his jacket. “On a scale of one to ten, what was your headache like yesterday versus today?”

“A ten yesterday. A one today.”

“Excellent,” he says. “Let’s get some vitals and I’ll give you some more drugs.”

“So as long as I take the drugs, I won’t relapse?” I ask, as he removes supplies from a leather briefcase.

“Not unless you run through a church parking lot in a thunderstorm,” he says, a smile ghosting across his lips.

I lean around him and point at Kayden. “Don’t even think about saying anything right now.”

Kayden lifts his hands in surrender, his lips curving, a hint of the tension between us slipping away. “I wasn’t even considering it.”

“Oh hell yeah, he was,” Matteo says.

Kayden responds to him in Italian, and they start talking back and forth as Nathan finishes checking my vitals. “You need to learn Italian,” Nathan observes.

“Yes,” I agree. “I do. Are you American too?”

“Canadian,” he corrects. “I came here for a woman and fell in love with the country, and out of love with her.”

“Ouch,” I say.

“Better to find out sooner than later,” he says, returning his supplies to his bag and retrieving a bottle, which he sets on the counter. “Take one now with a full glass of water and then four times a day for five days.”

“What are they?” I ask.

“The same anti-inflammatory I gave you by injection before you woke up. I use it often for patients suffering from migraines. You should be feeling pretty darn good by the time you run out. If for any reason it stops working, though, Kayden knows how to reach me. I’ll stop by his place to check on you in a few days.” He slips his bag on his shoulder. “And now, I am a day late for Valentine’s Day and therefore have a date I can’t miss.”