And as I stared at him with a racing heart and a gaping mouth, he looked down his nose at me. He looked Italian. Sounded it too when he asked, “You need something, Mrs. Scala?”

My mouth was dry. My tongue stuck when I stumbled over my words. “I-I- uh-” I shook my head. “No.”

He gave me a firm nod. “Okay,” then he added inflexibly, “I’m going to need you to step away.”

I swallowed hard, walking backwards until he was satisfied. His stern face remained unchanged when he reached into the house, took the door knob into his large hand and slowly pulled it closed, creating a barrier between us, locking me in but keeping him out.

My jaw felt stiff and heavy as my feet began to move of their own accord and then, I was at the back door. I saw the shadow of another tall figure standing right outside of it and changed directions, heading to the door that led to the garage. It was the only other way out. And when I slowly opened the door, I was a little less shocked but equally scared to find another goon situated right outside of it.

Like the others, he was dressed for war and when he spun to face me, he looked similarly unimpressed when he said, “I don’t want no trouble.” He made a show of putting his hand to the holstered gun at his belt. “Back away from the door.”

What in God’s name…?

I felt ill as I quietly stepped back a safe distance.

The goon closed the door and, slowly, the pieces of this confusing puzzle began to fit together. When the final fragment clicked into place, I walked listlessly over to the sofa, dazed and disoriented, and sat numbly, letting my bag fall off my shoulder, dropping to the ground with a dull thud. I blinked and turned my head to gaze at the manned front door, and my brow furrowed.

I couldn’t believe this. Or maybe I could. Either way, a single heated word slipped from my mouth. “Motherfucker.”

Ettore hadn’t abandoned me.

My head throbbed and my chest tightened with the realization.

He’d made me his fucking prisoner.

* * *

Ettore

I watched through the monitors as she moped, aimlessly walking the halls of the house. She hadn’t showered or changed her clothes in three days. Her hair remained unbrushed and she didn’t sleep more than a few hours each night. She was restless, but more than that, I could see she was sad. My wife looked miserable.

It made my jaw flex as I observed from afar.

Why I cared was anybody’s guess.

The wound below my shoulder was still tender. There was a constant dull ache attached to it, a reminder that what had been done couldn’t be undone. I’d taken the necessary action.