Chapter 93 -
They sat in silence for a moment. Outside, Nia could hear the first drops of rain hitting the window, just like Lucia had predicted. The sound was soft at first, then gradually louder, until it became a steady drumming that filled the quiet spaces in the room.
“I am not going to tell you what to do,” Lucia said finally. “I am not going to say that you should leave or that you should stay. I am not going to tell you that Leonardo is worth waiting for or that he will eventually come to his senses. I do not know any of those things.”
“Then what are you telling me?” Nia asked.
“I am telling you that I am here when you are ready to talk,” Lucia said. She stood, smoothing down her dress in a gesture that looked more like habit than necessity. “And I am telling you that whatever you decide, whatever you choose to do next, you are not alone in this house. Rosa cares about you. Micheal cares about you. Gabriel adores you. Even I care about you, though I have been trying very hard not to.”
“Why?” Nia asked.
“Because caring about people in this house is dangerous,” Lucia said simply. “But apparently I am terrible at protecting myself from danger. Otherwise I would never have married a DeSanto in the first place.”
She moved toward the door, her heels clicking against the floor in that same rhythmic countdown. Click. Click. Click.
At the threshold, she paused, looking back at Nia one more time.
“The rain is going to get worse before it gets better,” she said. “The storm is coming whether we are ready for it or not. You can hide from it in here, or you can face it head on. Either way, it is coming.”
Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the room.
Nia was alone again.
She turned to face the wall, pulling the blankets back up over her shoulders. The rain continued its steady drumming against the window, the sound almost hypnotic in its consistency.
Lucia’s words echoed in her mind. You could leave. You could be free.
Nia let out a scoff, “ She must definitely hates me. Want me to get killed before I kill Alex for putting me in this situation.”
She stared at the wall, watching the shadows shift as the rain continued to fall.
And she stayed exactly where she was.
Silent. Still. Staring at nothing while the storm built outside and the emptiness built inside and the world moved on without her.
~
The tally marks were hidden behind the loose panel in the nightstand. Seventeen lines crossed through in groups of five, like a prisoner counting days on a cell wall. Which, Nia supposed, was exactly what she was doing.
She pulled the paper out now, smoothing it against her knee as she sat cross-legged on the bed. The pencil Rosa had brought her days ago felt heavy in her hand as she added another mark to the collection. Thirty-five days since the Don had given Leo his ultimatum. Thirty-five days out of the ninety she had been in this house.
Ninety days. Three months. It sounded like such a long time when you said it out loud, but sitting here counting the hours, it felt like nothing. Like sand slipping through her fingers no matter how tightly she tried to hold on.
“Miss Wallace?” Matteo’s voice came through the door, muffled but clear enough. “Are you awake?”
Nia shoved the paper back behind the panel, her movements quick and guilty like she had been caught doing something wrong. “Yes.”
“Do you need anything?” he asked. It was the same question he asked every morning, and every morning Nia gave him the same answer.
“No. Thank you.”
She could hear him shift his weight on the other side of the door. Could picture him standing there in his dark suit, hands clasped behind his back, face carefully blank as he kept watch over a prisoner who was no longer trying to escape. At least not physically.
Nia stood, her legs protesting the movement after too many hours curled in the same position. She started pacing, her bare feet silent against the expensive rug that covered most of the floor. Five steps to the window. Turn. Seven steps to the door. Turn. Five steps back to the window.
She had memorized this room over the past days. Knew every crack in the plaster, every thread in the curtains, every knot in the wooden floor that peeked out from under the rug. Could walk it blind if she needed to, which sometimes felt like the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.
“Matteo?” she called out, stopping mid-pace.
“Yes, Miss Wallace?”
“Is it today?” The question came out quieter than she intended. Smaller. Like she was afraid of the answer.
There was a pause. Then Matteo said, carefully, “Is what today?”
“The deadline,” Nia said. She pressed her hand against the door, feeling the solid wood beneath her palm. “The three weeks the Don gave Leo to find answers. Is it today?”
“No,” Matteo said. His voice was gentle in a way that made Nia’s chest tight. “Not today.”
“When?” Nia asked.
Another pause. Longer this time. “Five more days.”
Five days. One hundred and twenty hours. Seven thousand two hundred minutes. Nia’s mind did the math automatically, reducing her remaining time in this house to numbers that felt more manageable than the suffocating reality of what those numbers meant.
In five days, if Leo had not found the person who killed Andrea, the Don would take Nia away. Would hand her over to his men for questioning. Would do whatever it took to extract information she did not have about a crime she had nothing to do with.
“Thank you for telling me,” Nia said.
“Miss Wallace,” Matteo started, then stopped. She heard him take a breath. “The boss is doing everything he can.”
“I know,” Nia said. She did not know if that was true, but it seemed like the right thing to say. The kind thing. The thing that would make Matteo feel better about standing guard outside her door while the clock counted down to whatever came next.
She went back to pacing. Five steps. Turn. Seven steps. Turn. The rhythm of it was almost meditative, letting her mind drift while her body moved through the familiar pattern.
The house felt different today. Heavier somehow. Like the walls themselves knew the deadline was approaching and were holding their breath in anticipation. Or maybe that was just Nia projecting her own anxiety onto the mansion’s old bones.
Through the door, she could hear the usual sounds of the house waking up. Rosa’s voice echoing from somewhere downstairs, sharp and commanding as she directed the kitchen staff. The creak of floorboards as people moved through the hallways. The distant slam of a door that made her jump even though she had been expecting it.
And underneath it all, a newer sound. Footsteps. Heavy and deliberate and getting closer.