My mother sighs, long and heavy. “Then at least treat her with dignity. Feed her properly, don’t threaten her, and give her some freedom to move around. If you’re going to make her a prisoner, at least don’t make her suffer more than necessary.”
I scowl, staring down at my desk. “I’m not trying to make her suffer.She’sthe one who refused to eat.”
“I swear, if you were in front of me, I’d slap you. Of course she refused to eat! She’s terrified and angry and trying to maintain some sense of control!” Mamma’s exasperation is palpable. “Use yourbrain, Leonardo. What would you do in her position? Think about how scared she must be.”
I look at Emma on the monitor.
She’s moved to the window now, staring out at the gardens with one hand pressed against the glass.
From this angle I can see her face, and she looks…lost.
Young and scared and so far from the spitting fury who threw a fork at my head this morning.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell my mother.
“You’ll do more than think about it. You’ll figure out how to end this before it destroys you.” She pauses. “I love you,bambino. But right now, I’m very disappointed in you.”
The line goes dead.
I set the phone down and rest my head in my hands, my mother’s words echoing in my skull.
When did my son become the kind of man who kidnaps women?
Fair question.
I don’t like the answer.
I look back at the monitor and Emma’s still at the window, still staring out at freedom she can’t reach.
Her shoulders are shaking slightly and I realize with a jolt that she’s crying again.
Silent tears run down her face while she thinks no one is watching.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it?
Connor Brennan’s daughter, broken and suffering.
This is the revenge I spent five years planning, the justice I thought I deserved.
So why does it feel so fucking hollow?
I thought taking Emma would feel satisfying.
Righteous.
Like I was finally balancing the scales.
But all I feel is tired and conflicted and uncomfortably aware that Dante and my mother are right.
This isn’t justice.
This is just more violence perpetuating more violence, and the only person really suffering is a woman who had nothing to do with Gabriel’s death.
I’m about to turn away from the monitor as I don’t need to watch Emma cry and feel the guilt that comes with it when my phone rings again.
Dante. Again.
I answer with more irritation than I probably should. “What now?”