Livvy woke to empty sheets.
The sun filtered too brightly through the curtains, casting gold over skin that still burned from last night. For a moment, she lay still, curled beneath the blankets, pretending she was somewhere else—someone else.
But then she moved, and the bruises on her hips screamed otherwise.
The nightstand held a plate of eggs and toast, a glass of orange juice, perfectly chilled. Her favorite. A peace offering. A claim.
Her stomach twisted.
She was still wearing Stanley’s ring. The thin gold band mocked her, catching the morning light, a reminder that this—whatever this was—wasn’t supposed to happen.
In the mafia, divorce wasn’t an option. Stanley owned her on paper, in name.
And yet Storm had taken her like she belonged to him.
The thought made her hands tremble as she picked up a piece of toast, forcing herself to eat, but every bite tasted like ash. God. Was she Storm’s whore now?
She thought of the way he had whispered to her in the dark, voice soft and dangerous. You’re mine, Angel.
Heat crawled up her neck. But guilt followed, cold and suffocating.
Angelina’s cry shattered the silence, snapping her back to the present. Livvy was on her feet before she could think, shoving aside the shame curling inside her. She slipped on a robe, moving to the crib in the corner, lifting her daughter into her arms.
Angelina was warm, safe, her tiny hands gripping at Livvy’s collar as she sniffled into her chest. This—this was what mattered. Not the past. Not last night. Not the way Storm had touched her, kissed her, claimed her.
If she wanted to protect her daughter, she had to stop thinking with her heart.
A shadow fell across the doorway.
Storm stood there, silent, dark-eyed, broad-shouldered. The bruises on his knuckles were fresh.
He had spent the morning putting them there.
He stepped forward, reaching out, his fingers brushing lightly against her cheek, tilting her face toward him. “You should rest.” His voice was softer now.
“I can’t.”
Her voice came out too brittle, too sharp. She cleared her throat, adjusting her hold on Angelina. “We need to find Michael.”
Storm’s expression darkened. His mouth pressed into a hard line. “We will.”
But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough until Michael was standing in front of her, breathing, whole. Every second wasted felt like a betrayal.
Livvy hesitated, biting her lip. She knew what she was about to say would set him off, but she had no other choice.
“My parents might know something.”
Storm’s face hardened instantly. “No.”
“They were close to Stanley,” she pressed. “If anyone might’ve heard—”
“They’re the ones who gave you to him.” His voice was sharp now, eyes flashing with something darker than anger. “They won’t help.”
The truth of it stung, but she couldn’t let that stop her.
She thought of her mother’s carefully painted smile, the way her father had smoothed her wedding dress the night before the ceremony, telling her to be good.
They had known.
They had known what kind of man Stanley was. And they had handed her over anyway. But they might still know something.
Livvy squared her shoulders. “I have to try,” she said, voice steady despite the fear curling in her gut.
Storm’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t stop her.
Because they both knew—she wasn’t asking.
She was going.
For Michael.