We navigate through streets for far longer than I can call comfortable. All I want to do is crash on a bed and sleep the night away.

The buildings on both sides of the street are still dingy but most of them have boards hanging atop their entrances, all written in Italian.

Elio slows down his pace and I can't be more grateful. The mental exhaustion on one side, physically I can't say I'm holding up that well.

Elio narrows his eyes as if contemplating something. Out of sheer curiosity, I scrutinize the spot he's studying.

One board reads Hotel in bright red colored words and a few buildings away another board has the word locanda, whatever that means. I settle with surveying the one with the hotel billboard and the longer I look at it, the more repellent it becomes. It's narrow and has about six stories, the orange brick walls have turned to an ugly shade of brown from years of pollution. The glass entrance door is grimy and the two steps leading to it are worse.

"I'm not going in these places with you." I cross my arms and turn to him. "Aren't you like a mega-billionaire or something?"

"This street and the following two are packed with hotels. It's the best hiding spot. If those men keep on looking, they're going to have a hard time finding us." He throws me a pointed look and strides past me.

"Why can't we go straight to your jet?" I ask, staying rooted to my spot.

"Because they'll be expecting us there," he says incredulously as if it's the most obvious thing.

Which is, but I'm too tired to spend the night in a dirty, uncomfortable bed.

I purse my lips and glare at him. He nonchalantly lifts a shoulder. "Fine, go where ever you want to go, but don't look at me if they catch you."

I squint at him and jab my index finger at him. "I'm only coming because I want to sleep and not see your ugly face for another minute."

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head as I stomp to him and we climb up the stairs. Once we pass the threshold, my nostrils are assaulted by the heavy scent of sandalwood and tobacco. Not the best combination.

The yellow light illuminating the place gives off an eerie vibe. Brown tiles, and a small desk in one corner with the receptionist sitting behind it, the place truly looks fit for a gangster to reside in. At least, for the broke ones.

I keep my arms folded as Elio does all the talking. Even though I don't understand what's going back and forth between them, I note how his brows pinch together as he waves his hand around while the girl keeps starting her sentences with nos.

I scratch my left cheek and pay more attention to them in hopes of catching familiar words.

Elio points at me and says something to the girl, she smiles at me before returning her attention to Elio immediately. He lays his forearm on the higher part of the desk, leaning to the desk, his posture relaxing. He says something that makes her giggle before nodding and typing something on her computer.

I furrow my brows and narrow my eyes. Is this asshole flirting with her?

She leans over the top, a sultry smile stretching across her lips.

Is he mad!

I shift my weight from one foot to another, keeping my annoyance at bay.

"Sei di Roma?" she asks as she places a key on the top of the desk.

"Sì." Elio nods without hesitance and picks up the key, and winks at her. "Grazie."

I chew my bottom lip as I go over the girl's question. Roma... could that possibly mean Rome? If so, why would she think he's from Rome when he's from Sicily. Aren't the accents different?

I eye Elio suspiciously as he heads to the staircase and quirks an eyebrow at me.

"Doesn't this place have an elevator?" I ask three stairs up and about four steps behind him.

"It's broken."

I sigh and urge my legs to keep moving, reminding myself I'll soon reach a bed.

Dammit, I don't have my pills with me. I curse under my breath as my inhales and exhales grow heavier. Spending the majority of my time behind desks and tables clearly didn't do me good in the physical activity area.

With one hand against the unsmooth wall, I slow down and decide to pry a little to get my mind off how many more stairs I have to climb.

"What does Roma mean?"

"What?" He halts midway and turns to me with confusion.

Taking the opportunity, I stop too, pressing my free hand to my chest to catch my breath. "The girl said it."

Realization sparks in his dark eyes. "You mean Roma," he says complacently, pronouncing it just like the way that receptionist did as he smirks at me.

Asshole.

"Did she think you're from Rome?" I inquire, plastering an innocent curious look on my face, watching him with wide eyes, noting every little shift.

Nonchalantly he nods. "She did."

"Why?"

Instead of replying, Elio begins going up the stairs and I huff, pushing myself off the wall and following him.

An entire flight of stairs later and yet he hasn't answered my question. Interest piques my information-starved brain. I decide to push a little harder.

"Why would she think you're from Rome? Do Sicilians have the same accent as the Romans?"

"No, the dialects are different," he mutters.

Interesting. "So you're telling me, you don't talk the same way as the Sicilians do?"

My question stops him in his track. Even though the staircase is absurdly narrow he manages to spin flawlessly and not tumble down like a sack of potatoes. His features have darkened.

"Why are you asking? What's your point?"

I shrug. "I'm just curious."

He scoffs and descends a step. "You want to gather information."

"I'm trying to get to know you." I hold his glare as he keeps coming down the steps until reaching the one before mine.

"So you can use all you figure out about me, against me." He arches an eyebrow, his dark brown eyes oddly cold as he stares me down.

My fingers fidget of their own accord. "I don't see what knowing about your accent can help me in any way..." my voice trails down as a theory forms in my head. Unless it's crucial information. Him being recognized as a man from Rome instead of Sicily can't be possible unless he was raised in Rome.

My eyes widen and a gasp slips from my mouth. "Holy shit! You're not Sicilian. Oh my gosh!" I press my hands to my cheeks as the first-ever puzzle piece of the riddle named Emiliano Mariano comes to light. "Oh my God, how did I not notice! You're not Luigi Mariano's actual son!" I exclaim. "That's why you're so touchy on your accent and you can't stand anyone to question your decision as the capo, because you're not the actual capo!"

The buzz of unraveling this truth almost sends me toppling down the stairs but I catch myself on time. When my gaze lands on Elio my excitement dies.

His brows are furrowed and his eyes are narrowed, he's looking at me the same way someone would look at a person who has said the stupidest thing in human history.

"What the fuck," he breathes out and starts laughing. "How can you come up with such a bizarre theory." He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. "Use your two working brain cells. If I wasn't from this bloodline, I never would have reached this point, they simply wouldn't have allowed it. If I wasn't Luigi's biological son, Pietro would've been the capo and you would've been dead."

I glower at him. "Why do you find it necessary to circle everything back to the part where I die?"

He smiles at me. "It's a good thing to remind you until you start using your brain."

I grit my teeth to stop myself from cursing him out. Infuriating asshole.

"So why is your accent different?" I quirk an eyebrow.

He sighs and turns away. "It's a long story, tesorino, maybe I'll tell you some other time."

My shoulders drop in disappointment. Silently, I follow him up the stairs. After another flight, I'm left panting and near the passing-out stage. Not two stairs ahead, Elio notices I've stopped and turns on his spot, a smug smile playing on the edges of his lips.

I lean to the wall, pressing the back of my head to it, and from the corner of my eye, I look at Elio. "I don't understand Italian, but I'm pretty sure Marco talks like you," I point out after catching my breath and wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand.

"You're not going to drop it, are you?" He shoves his hands into his pockets, his eyes locked on me. I can't tell if he's annoyed or not.

Regardless, I lift a shoulder. "What can I say, I don't have anything better to do."

A corner of his mouth twitches upwards. "Marco grew up in Rome, but had to come back to Sicily when he was a kid and then he returned to Rome for college."

Oh. "And you?"

Plastering a smug smile, he inclines his chin to the next flight of stairs. "It's the last floor, our rooms are here, start moving." He begins climbing the stairs as I stare at him with exasperation.

For over two weeks I've been stuck with the Mariano mob and I still don't know anything about Elio. Unbelievable.

With a huff, I push myself off the wall and trudge after him. "You know, I don't understand what's-" I pause as he slows down. I continue, "What's the point of being so secretive, it's not like I can use these trivial things against you."

Elio waves his hand without turning around.

I tilt my head in confusion. "What's wrong?"

Two loud voices come from nearby, probably from the room located on the edge of the floor. I can't tell if they're arguing or just talking, but surely the language is Italian.

"Elio, what's wrong?" My voice grows high-pitched as worry slowly ebbs into me, clamming up my palms. When he doesn't answer, I call out again only for him to spin and latch his palm over my mouth and hold his index fingers against his lips, shushing me.

He doesn't move his hand away, and even though his touch is warm the tips of my fingers grow icy as I stare into his chestnut eyes.

Shit shit shit. I knew we shouldn't have come here.

The voices come again, and now that I'm listening closely, there are probably three or maybe even four men, talking animatedly inside the room.

My heart pounds as I fail to drag my widened eyes away from Elio's face. We're fucked.

At last, his hand drops from my mouth and he leans to me, his warm breath breezing past my neck as he nears his mouth to my ear. "Don't move, stay right here as quietly as you can until I come back for you," he whispers, his deep voice sending chills down my spine.

Shit's about to get real.

He looks at me expectantly. My head jerks a nod. His hand reaches for the jacket he gave me earlier tonight. I can't tell if it's fear or his hands coming so close to me, but whatever the reason, I forget to breathe as he pulls down a zipper on the inside of the jacket and retrieves his gloves, my eyes stay glued to his face.

Are we going to die tonight?

Swiftly he puts on the gloves and in deliberate steps, Elio climbs the stairs as his hand reaches to his side, and pulls out his gun.

I hold my breath as he brings the gun up close to the side of his face as he goes up the last step. He throws one final glance at me before leaving my line of sight.

My fingers furl around my necklace's pendant as my bottom lip quivers. My inhales and exhales are short bursts of air as my chest aches from the constant hammering of my heart. Icy sweat breaks over my forehead.

A loud noise of wood breaking makes me flinch and I almost fall from the stairs. Not a moment later the deafening sound of two gunshots follows and I stop breathing.

Too soon, another gunshot rings across the vacant place. I press my trembling hand against my mouth. Dizziness makes it impossibly hard to stay on my feet. For the fourth time a gun is fired and not a beat later the fifth bullet is shot.

Tendrils of glacial panic dig into me.

Oh my goodness, did they kill Elio? 

They killed Elio.

Terror and worry twist my stomach into knots as I stay frozen in my spot. An eerie silence follows and I can't stop myself from hyperventilating. Is Elio dead?

❈ ☯︎ ❈

Thank you for reading this chapter, I hope you enjoyed it, don't forget to comment your thoughts and vote if you enjoyed it.

Any guesses about Elio's backstory? =)

Stay safe, lots of love, happy reading <3