Chapter 189

Chapter 189
"I have to go." The words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them. My fingers trembled on the door handle of Salvatore's car, refusing his outstretched hand and the future it promised. Rain slashed across my face, cold and unforgiving, as I stumbled out into the darkness.

Salvatore lunged forward, his eyes widening with shock. "Beatrice, wait—" His voice cracked with desperation, but I couldn't bear to hear what came next.

I was already running, my feet splashing through puddles that reflected the broken streetlights above. The car door slammed behind me with a metallic finality, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet night—like a gunshot marking the end of something that never really had a chance to begin.

My lungs burned as I sprinted through the dim streets, rain mingling with the tears I refused to acknowledge were falling. Each raindrop felt like ice against my flushed skin, but I welcomed the sensation—anything to distract from the hollow ache spreading through my chest.

We could never have a future. I'm a Rossi, he's a Vasquez. The blood between us runs deeper than any feelings could.

I navigated through several mob-controlled neighborhoods, instinctively choosing safer routes, my body remembering lessons my mind tried to forget. I avoided corners where deals happened after dark, ducked away from windows where watchers might recognize me. The streets had taught me well which shadows concealed predators.

Falling for him would be betraying Enzo. How could I feel anything for someone whose family took Enzo from this world? The same father who ordered his death... the same brother who...

My thoughts fractured as I ran, unable to complete themselves through the pain. By the time I reached my place, my clothes were plastered to my skin, hair dripping rivulets down my neck. I was shivering despite the summer night, teeth chattering as I fumbled with my keys.

I expected darkness when I entered, the silence of an empty home—instead, I found lights blazing in our living room and Amelia perched anxiously on our threadbare couch, her face ashen.

"Where have you been?" Her eyes were wide with panic, fingers twisting together so tightly I could see white knuckles even from the doorway.

I peeled off my dripping jacket, suddenly alert. "What's wrong?"

"Ezra's house and warehouse were burned down." Amelia's words tumbled out frantically, her voice rising and falling with barely controlled hysteria. "I heard from Ezra himself that Marisa ran off with some crazy woman just before it happened."

I froze, water dripping from my hair onto the floor, forming small puddles at my feet. "What?"

"Ezra went absolutely ballistic," she continued, her hands trembling. "He was killing people all over the Bronx, anyone he thought might be hiding them." Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "Maxwell snuck out while I was gone, and Ezra saw him in the street and—" She choked, unable to finish, her eyes filling with tears.

Her hands made a violent, slashing gesture. "The neighborhood people finally couldn't take it anymore and they..." She drew her finger across her throat, the universal symbol for death.

"Oh my God, that's terrible," I said, carefully arranging my face into an appropriate mask of horror and sympathy. But inside, something dark and satisfied unfurled like a predatory cat stretching in the sun. She's free. Marisa finally escaped that monster.

The news of Maxwell and Ezra's deaths stirred something complex within me—a twisted satisfaction I wasn't proud of but couldn't deny. They deserved worse after what they did to those girls. To Marisa. To all the others no one knows about.

But beneath that satisfaction lay genuine sadness for the innocent residents caught in the crossfire. It's always regular people who pay the price for mob vendettas. The ones with no escape routes, no protection.

"When will this ever end?" I whispered, my nails digging crescents into my palms hard enough to draw blood.

Back in my bedroom, I pulled out my duffel bag from under the bed and started methodically sorting through my meager possessions. My movements were quick, deliberate—as though some part of me had been preparing for this moment without my conscious knowledge.

The door creaked open behind me. Sofia stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, expression unreadable in the dim light. She'd clearly been awake, though it was nearly 3 AM.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was flat, emotionless.

I continued packing, not meeting her eyes. "I have to leave. Antonio banished me from his territory."

Sofia leaned against the doorframe, surprisingly calm given the circumstances. "Then go."

Her indifference hit me like a physical blow. I turned to face her, clutching a shirt to my chest like a shield. "Aren't you coming with me? What if they discover you're a Rossi? How will you—"

"Well, I'm not a Ro—" She caught herself mid-word, eyes widening slightly. "Just go. I can take care of myself."

I stared at her, my mouth suddenly dry, the world narrowing to this moment. "What? You're not what?"

Sofia looked away, her silence deafening in the small room, the only sound the distant patter of rain against the window.

"Then who am I?" My voice cracked, the world spinning around me like a carnival ride I couldn't escape.

Sofia finally met my eyes, her gaze cold and distant—a stranger wearing my mother's face. "You're actually your father's bastard with his wife's best friend. I just thought daughters were easier to raise. More useful in the long run..."

The room tilted violently. I staggered backward until my legs hit the bed, my hand flying to my mouth as though to physically hold back the scream building in my throat. Everything was a lie. Every single thing I thought I knew about myself.

After a sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling, I sat up as dawn broke, watching Brooklyn's slums gradually emerge from darkness. The neighborhood I'd called home now felt like another prison I needed to escape.

I pulled out the gun I'd hidden beneath the floorboards, checking that it was loaded. I'd bought it months ago from a kid behind the school, never certain why I felt I needed it until now.

Opening my journal, I wrote: "Before I leave, I need to know the truth."

On the final page, I pressed the pen hard enough to tear the paper: "Antonio Vasquez, today you're going to tell me where my real parents are."

I snapped the journal shut and watched the sky lighten. Whatever the truth was, I was finally ready to face it—or die trying.