Chapter 94

Matteo jolted awake, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he lifted his head from the keyboard where he had dozed off the previous night. A groan rumbled from deep within him as he squinted through the haze, his eyes barely adjusting to the dim light. His gaze fell on the half-empty glass decanter sitting nearby, and he quickly did the math in his head—he must have downed nearly fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of Glen McKenna just to knock himself out. Expensive, but necessary.

He pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples, trying to shake off the lingering fog as he scanned the room for the source of his abrupt awakening. Tapping his phone, he saw it was already past eight in the morning. He couldn’t quite recall when Genevieve had said she was heading to bed, but he distinctly remembered reaching his fourth glass of whiskey.

After they returned home from the funeral, Matteo had buried himself in work, desperate to drown out the haunting image of Genevieve in pain—her body broken by grief over the loss of one of his men. The thought of her suffering like that if it were him lying in a coffin sent a shiver down his spine. He shook his head, silently pleading with God for just a moment’s peace. Rising unsteadily, he took a few wobbly steps toward the door, steadying himself on a side table. Drawing in a deep breath, he pushed forward down the hallway toward the bedroom, hoping Genevieve was still asleep so he could sneak in a shower and try to gather himself.

When he reached the room, Matteo leaned heavily against the dresser just inside the door, expecting to find her sprawled out and snoring peacefully. Instead, his heart hammered painfully as he noticed the sheets tossed aside, revealing an empty mattress. A sinking feeling settled deep in his gut as he moved toward the bathroom, telling himself she was probably just showering. He eased the door open, but there was no steam, no sound of running water, and the light was off.

“Gen?” he called softly. The silence that answered him tightened the knot in his chest. Straightening, his voice rose with urgency. “Genevieve?!”

Panic surged as he dashed back through the bedroom. His socks slid on the hardwood floor, nearly sending him sprawling. He checked every nearby room—the guest bedroom, the half-bath, the sunroom—his eyes darting frantically across the open living and kitchen areas.

“Gen!” he shouted again, his voice cracking.