I should convince Dario I don’t want him, but how? He’d never believe me. Not after the way we’ve treated each other to convince his captors that there’s nothing between us but violence. The threat on my life if he returns will only deter him until he’s back on his feet. Then getting me back alive will become a challenge. Dario never backs away from a challenge.

Bowing my head under the shower, I let scalding water burn my back, breathing thick, heavy steam.

I can get out of this. I can call Massimo and say I’ve changed my mind. Make another deal. Find a way around it.

What if I ran away today?

They’d kill Dario or keep him alive to draw me back.

What if I burned down the church?

They’d unlock the doors to save him or let him die.

What if I killed myself?

Isn’t that what I’m doing already?

I shut the water. All the options are too extreme, and none have as good a guarantee that Dario will be freed.

I slept well for a reason. Doubting my choice is causing more stress than the choice itself.

The mourning period for my father isn’t over, but it is for me. I’m done with black. Today, I wear a deep plum dress my mother made for me. It has short sleeves and a jewel neck. The skirt lands a few inches above the ankle and is slimmer and more modern than the mourning dress. When I see myself in the mirror, I am almost convinced I’m an outsider woman with a host of options.

I go out to the kitchen and the smell of bacon.

“Don’t you look nice,” Grandma says earnestly.

Not the reaction I expected. Nor is the way she stands in front of me and squeezes my hands.

“Thank you.” I’m not sure what else to say. She lets go of me to tend to the popping bacon.

“Your brother worked through the night.”

“On what?”

She waves at the question because the answer isn’t meaningful to her. She may not scold me over moving out of mourning early, and she may be more chipper than I’ve ever seen her, but she hasn’t really changed.

She hasn’t been this cheerful since the day before I was kidnapped.

The day before my wedding.

So, she knows.

I wipe down some of the bacon splatter on the counter.

“About the other day,” I say. “When I found Mom’s severance papers…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” She shuts the burner when the bacon is exactly perfect. “I understand why it upset you. We don’t have to mention it again.” She offers me a quick smile before snapping a pair of tongs from the counter. She’d like nothing more than to never speak of it.

“I wasn’t asking for forgiveness.”