The Don and His Mafia Princess: Book Two of The Costanzo Series - Standalone

CHAPTER 21

ANDREA

My heart pounds fiercely as Stefano's question propels me back to that fateful night. Memories flood my mind with the force of a bulldozer, each one vivid and raw, tearing through the carefully constructed walls I've built to keep them at bay.

FIVE YEARS AGO

Blood trickles down my legs, leaving a trail of crimson droplets on the rough gravel. My body is a canvas of wounds and bruises, each one a testament to the horror I've endured. My right leg is bent at an unnatural angle, broken and throbbing with every movement, but the pain is nothing compared to the terror driving me forward. I can't let myself be caught and dragged back to that hell. I have to run to escape, no matter the cost.

My eyes light up with a glimmer of hope as I spot a neighborhood in the distance. Help! With the last reserves of my strength, I lurch towards the first house, my fist pounding weakly against the door. No answer. I move to the next, my heart leaping as someone answers - only to have the door slammed in my face the moment they see my battered form.

"Per favore!" I plead in Italian, my bruised hand leaving bloody smears on the door. "Please, just call the police!" But my cries fall on deaf ears.

As I stumble away, leaving my bloody handprint as a grim testament, a chilling realization dawns. The woman's lack of surprise suggests I'm not the first victim she's turned away. How many others have been abandoned on these very doorsteps? The thought sends a shiver down my spine, but I push it aside, clinging to the hope that someone in this neighborhood will have the courage to help.

House after house, door after door - all remain stubbornly shut. The silence of the neighborhood is deafening, a collective act of cowardice born from fear of *him*. It explains why he hasn't caught up to me yet - he knows these people won't interfere. The weight of this realization crushes me, and I collapse to the ground, a heart-wrenching cry tearing from my throat.

"No!" I sob, my body shaking. "I can't go back. He'll murder me. I'll die."

But even in my darkest moment, a spark of defiance ignites within me. "Andrea, get up," I command myself, my voice barely a whisper. "This is not your time. This is not your fucking time."

With trembling limbs, I force myself to stand, pushing through the searing pain. I limp deeper into the neighborhood, desperation fueling each agonizing step until fate leads me to one last door.

The old woman's eyes widen as she takes in my battered form. "Not again!" she exclaims, moving to close the door. But I, summoning my last ounce of strength, wedge my foot in the gap.

"Please," I beg, collapsing to my knees on the doorstep. "He will kill me. Please." My words hang in the air, a desperate plea for mercy.

She stares down at me, eyes brimming with a mixture of pity and unshed tears. For a long moment, the only sound is my ragged breathing. Then, with a deep sigh that seems to carry the weight of a lifetime, she does what no one else in the neighborhood dared to do that night.

"It seems I have lived long enough," she says softly, reaching down to help me to my feet. As we cross the threshold into the safety of her home, I feel a glimmer of hope for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

"Andrea, I asked you a fucking question," a voice says, yanking me from the haunting memory of that night.

I blink rapidly, forcing myself back to the present. Stefano's piercing gaze bores into me, his brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and frustration. The air between us crackles with tension.

"Andrea, I asked you a fucking question," he repeats, his voice low and demanding.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady my racing heart. My hands tremble, and I clench them into fists to hide it. "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Stefano's jaw clenches, his eyes flashing with barely contained anger. "You can't tell me why I found you in the last place I expected after I had dropped you off at the mall?" The disbelief in his voice is palpable.

"Yes, I can't," I repeat, forcing myself to meet his gaze head-on despite the unease churning in my gut. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" he seethes, taking a step closer to me.

I nod, swallowing hard against the lump forming in my throat. "I am." The words taste bitter on my tongue.

Stefano runs a hand through his hair, frustration rolling off him in waves. "And why can't you fucking tell me? Why?" he demands, his voice rising with each word, filling the room.

I close my eyes briefly, steeling myself for his reaction. When I open them, I can feel the mix of determination and fear in my gaze. "Because..." I begin, my voice trembling. "You would never look at me the same."

Confusion momentarily replaces the anger in Stefano's eyes. His brow furrows deeper. "What do you mean?"

I take a shaky breath, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. "I can't explain it, but that's just it," I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of the emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

Stefano stares at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the silence stretches between us, thick with tension and unspoken words. I can almost hear the gears turning in his head as he tries to make sense of my cryptic response.

"That's just it?" he finally says, his voice low and dangerous. Each word is carefully enunciated, dripping with disbelief. "That's your fucking explanation?"

I nod, tears burning at the back of my eyes, but I hold them back. "Yes."

Stefano shakes his head, a mirthless laugh escaping his lips. The sound is harsh, grating, and it makes me flinch. "Unbelievable," he mutters, turning away from me. His shoulders are rigid with barely contained rage.

I stand there, my heart in my throat, watching as he paces the room like a caged animal. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension. The silence between us is deafening, filled with all the things we can't say to each other.

Finally, he stops and turns to face me, but when he speaks, his voice is cold and detached, each word carefully measured. "Pack your stuff. You're going back to Florida."

His words hit me like a slap. "Stefano," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, filled with shock and hurt.

He doesn't waver. "I can't have you going to places where you'll get yourself killed, and you won't even bother to fucking tell me why."

I open my mouth to argue, to plead for him to understand that some things are better left unsaid, but the words die on my tongue. The weight of everything I've held back from him presses down on me, making it impossible to speak.

"Fine. No problem. I'll leave," I say, my voice hollow.

With that, I turn and walk away, each step feeling like a mile. My heart is heavy with the secrets I carry and the knowledge that I may have just lost the one person who could have understood, but I'm too scared to find out if he would. I close my room door behind me, the soft click sounding like the final nail in the coffin of our relationship.

Inside, the silenceis deafening. I collapse onto my bed, the tears finally spilling over as thereality of what just happened crashes down on me. The walls of the room seem toclose in, suffocating me with the pain of what could have been. My chest acheswith the unspoken words, the missed opportunities, and the fear that I'vedriven away the one person who mattered most.