Chapter 7 Night Terrors
The SUV rolled up to the O'Sullivan compound just after midnight.
Liam sat in the back seat, staring at nothing, Mateo's words looping in his mind like a guillotine.
We take her.
He had made Alessia collateral. A woman he barely knew. A woman he was being forced to marry. A woman whose life now hung on his ability to succeed—or fail.
And she didn’t have a clue.
Finn cleared his throat from the driver’s seat. “Boss, you need to go inside. Get some rest before—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You haven’t slept in three days.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Finn exchanged a glance with Rory, then fell silent. He knew when to push—and when to shut up.
Liam’s phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
The Council requests your presence. Neutral location. Tonight. Non-negotiable.
His jaw tightened. Of course. One night of peace before the wedding wasn’t allowed.
Another text arrived almost instantly:
Miss Scarpetti has received the same instructions. You will both remain at the location until the ceremony.
Security purposes.
His hands curled into fists.
Security purposes. Translation: We don’t trust either of you. We’re locking you in.
“Change of plans,” Liam said flatly. “We’re going to the east side.”
Finn frowned. “The safe house?”
“Apparently.”
“They’re really not taking any chances, are they?”
“No. They’re not.”
The safe house was a penthouse in Midtown Manhattan—neutral territory. Sleek. Modern. Sterile. Expensive furniture, minimal personality. A cage in luxury.
Liam arrived first, escorted by two Council guards who checked his weapons at the door. He didn’t argue. They held all the cards.
The penthouse split into two wings—east and west. He was shown to the east wing, which included a bedroom, bathroom, and small sitting area.
“Miss Scarpetti will occupy the west wing,” one guard said, clipped. “You are not to enter her space. She is not to enter yours. Common areas—kitchen, living room—are shared, but only if necessary.”
“Understood,” Liam said coldly.
The guard nodded and left, locking the main door behind him.
Liam stood in the center of the bedroom, staring at the king-sized bed that looked more like a slab than a place to rest. He didn’t unpack. He just sat on the edge, head in his hands.
This was it. The night before everything changed.
Tomorrow, he would marry Alessia Scarpetti. Stand before both families and lie about peace. Tie himself to a woman who hated him as much as he hated her.
And if he failed—if the cartel deal collapsed—she would disappear.
He closed his eyes. The weight of it pressed on his chest.
Twenty minutes later, Alessia arrived.
The same cold escort, the same locked door. The west wing mirrored his—sterile, impersonal, suffocating. She set her small overnight bag on the bed, staring at the room like it was a cell.
Because it was.
The Council wasn’t taking chances. They had already killed to prove their authority. Now they made sure neither she nor Liam could run.
Alessia moved to the window, staring at the city lights below. Somewhere, Agent Thorne waited for her next report. Somewhere, her father probably celebrated her usefulness.
And somewhere in this penthouse, Liam O'Sullivan was likely cursing her existence.
She pressed her forehead to the cool glass, chest tight. Tomorrow, she would marry him. Move into this life permanently. There would be no turning back.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Thorne: Stay focused. This is what we’ve been working toward.
She didn’t reply.
Instead, she retrieved the velvet box her father had given her. Inside, her mother’s pearl necklace.
She held it in trembling hands, the weight familiar and unbearable. Her mother had worn these pearls the day she died.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
She set the necklace down and turned away, vision blurring. Sleep was impossible, but she needed it—needed to be sharp, to survive tomorrow.
3:47 a.m. The nightmare came.
Alessia was ten again. At the top of the stairs, gripping the railing. Watching her parents argue below.
“I’m taking her with me, Salvatore,” her mother said, voice shaking but firm. “We’re done.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” her father said, cold and emotionless.
“You can’t stop me.”
“Can’t I?”
He moved too fast. His hand on her mother’s shoulder. And then she was falling.
Tumbling down the stairs. Her scream swallowed by the night. Her body striking each step with sickening thuds.
Alessia tried to scream. No sound. Tried to move. Legs frozen. Could only watch as her mother hit the bottom, twisted, broken.
Her father looked up, eyes empty.
“You saw nothing,” he said.
She woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, heart hammering.
Room too small. Too dark. Too suffocating.
She stumbled toward the door. Needed air. Space.
Freedom.
Hands fumbled with the lock. Locked.
Panic clawed her throat.
Trapped. Again. Like her father’s house. Like her whole life.
Walls closing in. Breath gone.
Liam hadn’t slept either.
Three hours pacing. Mind a storm of guilt, rage, and something nameless gnawing at him.
He poured water in the kitchen when he heard it.
A sound. Faint. Panicked. Breathing.
High alert.
West wing. Alessia.
He moved quickly across the common area. Her door slightly ajar—she had unlocked it.
He pushed it open slowly.
Alessia stood in the hallway, back against the wall, hands flat as if holding herself up. Eyes wide, unfocused. Breath ragged.
A panic attack.
“Alessia,” Liam said softly.
No response.
He stepped closer, careful. “Alessia. Look at me.”
Her gaze snapped to his. Fear. Raw, deep, bone-deep.
“I can’t—” Voice cracking. “I can’t breathe. I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” He moved closer. Steady. “Breathe with me. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
She shook her head. Hands trembling.
“Alessia.” Eyes locked. “Breathe. With me. Now.”
He inhaled slowly, exaggerated. She tried. Stuttered.
“Again,” he said. “In. Out.”
This time, she managed it. Barely.
“Good. Keep going.”
They breathed together until gasps slowed. Wild panic drained from her eyes.
Legs gave out.
He caught her. Hands firm, holding her upright.
“I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “You’re okay.”
She looked up, pale, eyes glazed with the shadow of the nightmare.
“Don’t let him in,” she whispered. Small, broken. “Please. Don’t let him in.”
Liam’s chest tightened. “Who?”
But she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring past him, at something only she could see.
“He’ll hurt me,” she murmured. “He always hurts me.”
His jaw clenched. He didn’t know who. But her fear—pure, unguarded—snapped something inside him.
He guided her back toward the guest bed in the common area. Safer than the locked room. Helped her sit.
Half-asleep, caught between nightmare and reality.
He pulled the blanket over her. Her hand shot out, fingers curling around his wrist.
“Don’t leave,” she whispered. “Please.”
His heart pounded. He should leave. She was his enemy. Dangerous. But terrified.
He sat in the chair beside the bed.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly.
Her grip loosened but stayed.
He stayed. Watched her breathing even out, fear draining, sleep finally coming.
Dawn crept through the windows, gold and gray.
And in that quiet, one thought circled his mind, heavy, persistent.
Who hurt you, Alessia?
