Patrick's soft snoring filled my ears as I slowly fell out of the Land of Dreams. His rich smell filled my lungs making me cling to the body around me, my hands clawing at his chest. I rubbed my head against his smooth chest, feeling secure and safe wrapped in his arms.

Patrick sighed, his eyes slowly waking to the world around him. They flicked around the room before they landed on mine that continued to stare at him. A smile appeared on his face as he looked over me, seeing something that he liked.

"Morning," he croaked, still half asleep.

"Morning," I groaned, snuggling up to him.

He chuckled at me, clearly seeing what I was trying to do. Before I realized, he had flipped us so that I was safely pinned beneath him. I yelped from shock before I fell into giggles as he kissed me in a sweet and affectionate way that only he seemed to pull off.

"Mmm," I moaned, once we broke, "I'm getting very use to waking up with you next to me."

He chuckled, knocking my nose, "Me too."

I giggled, before Patrick took my lips again.

I wanted nothing more than to be caught up in the moment but something was stopping me. Something was always stopping me.

Patrick pulled back, frowning, "What's wrong."

"Nothing," I lied, biting my lip.

Patrick scoffed, shaking his head, "You are a horrible liar. What's going through your mind?"

"It's nothing," I tried to convince him, hoping he would just drop it.

Patrick's eyes narrowed at me, trying to will it out of me. Of course, it worked.

"Just, oh my God, I'm just going to say it. How, many, girls have you...slept with?"

Patrick's mouth dropped, his eyes turning cold. And just like that, our moment had ended. He sat up, refusing to look at me. Turning around, he swung his legs off the side of the bed.

"I don't know," he muttered under his breath, picking up his briefs from the floor and pulling them on.

"Too many to count?" I asked, covering myself with the sheets.

He shook his head, "Too many to remember."

My heart cracked. My mouth dropped.

I knew that I had made this pain that was burning in the pit of my stomach. It wasn't the fact that he had slept with a lot of women. It was that he cared that little about them that he couldn't even spare the time to remember. And I knew that I was different, clearly. But that didn't make our sex life any different. He had already told me that we couldn't have love. But I at least thought we had some sort of connection in the sheets.

"Um, h-how is that –?"

"Eliza, women were thrown at me since I turned fifteen," he explained, trying to make reason of his confession.

"Were they...were they prostitutes?" I asked, not knowing why that seemed important.

"Some of them...most of them," he whispered, "a few girls in college, some in high school. A lot of drunk – oh God, what difference does it make?"

None, really. Though I was torn between feeling my heartbreak for him and a sudden need to take a test. I knew it was horrible, but I couldn't help but think that way. I was heartbroken for all the wrong reasons. I wanted to be angry at him for treating women like vessels. But I couldn't help but feel sad for him, that he had to fill some void inside of him for screwing these women.

"H-how do you see women?" I asked, hoping that would give me some answers.

"Honestly?" he questioned, "these women, I saw them as a way to kill time, relieve stress, whatever, whatever."

His frustration was clearly shown as he stood and started to pace the room. I licked my lips trying to control my anger but I couldn't. He was just like all the men that I was trying to protect the girls at the brothel from. I had married one of them.

"Were they from your brothel?" I asked, remembering how shocked they were to meet me.

"Some," he shrugged, "maybe one or two."

Oh, my stomach was turning. These girls had asked me about our sex life, judging me because I hadn't slept with him. God, now I knew why.

"Don't Eliza," Patrick snapped, for no reason.

"Don't what?" I shouted.

"Don't have that look on your face. Don't judge me for my actions. I was not brought up like you!" he yelled.

"Like what?" I growled, now furious, "like the princess you clearly think I am."

"No, like the girl that had a choice."

"Choice, what choice?" I yelled, "I had no choices in my life."

"You told me that last night that you didn't want to save yourself, which meant your father allowed you to date, correct?" he questioned.

"So?" I huffed.

"So, I wasn't giving that choice," he growled, "I was forced to go through life with these meaningless relationships, that only involved one thing. So I'm sorry if that is too hard for you to understand."

"I'm trying!"

"No, you're not. You're judging me," he snapped.

"I'm just trying to understand. Why didn't you try and have meaningful relationships?" I asked him.

He frowned, narrowing his eyes at me, "How the hell would that have worked? I find this woman that I would like to spend a life with, but, oh wait, I have to marry another woman because of a deal my father made fifteen years ago."

"I did," I told him, "up until five months before the wedding I was dating."

"You got lucky," he snapped.

I went to argue when I stopped.

Did he...was he...oh crap.

"When did you stop sleeping with other women?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

He remained silent.

"I stopped having any type of relationship with guys five months before the wedding. When was the last time you slept with someone else?" I asked, more clearly this time.

His cupped his hand over his mouth, cupping his chin as he thought. My heart started to race, praying for him to say the same. At least a month before, or a week or –

"The night before the wedding," he answered, "It was a bachelor party thing. The boys organised it."

Okay, I could accept that.

"Okay, besides from that. How long before the wedding?" I questioned, already feeling as if I knew the answer.

"The day before that," he muttered, but it was as clear as day.

That was a bigger pill to swallow. Patrick was sleeping with other women right up to the day of the wedding.

Patrick could clearly see the hurt that was written all over my face. Apparently it only pissed himself off more because he stormed into his walk in wardrobe. I groaned, not wanting this argument to spread.

I took my robe from where it lied on the lounge and pulled it on. Tying the rope and pulling my hair out of the collar, I walked to the doorway, feeling very not welcomed inside. Patrick was getting dressed, trying to release the frustration out on his clothes.

"I'm sorry that my life style disgusts you," he snapped, doing up his belt.

I scoffed, "You know that's not what I think. I'm just a little shocked."

"You were more than shocked," he spat.

I rolled my eyes, trying to remain the calm one, "Just, tell me that you haven't slept with anyone else after the wedding?"

He frowned, looking more hurt as he turned around, "Of course not. I am many things, Eliza but a cheater isn't one of them."

"Of course not. That wasn't what I was suggesting," I breathed, filling even guiltier.

Patrick just shook his head, reaching out for a shirt. Enough was enough.

"Hey," I said, getting in between them, forcing him to talk to me, "Patrick."

"What do you want me to say, Eliza? Sorry that my life wasn't squeaky clean and pure like yours," he barked.

"You don't have to apologise for that," I told him, cupping his cheek and trying to get him to look at me, "Look at me, Patrick."

Reluctantly, his eyes fell down to mine.

"Never, apologise for that," I told him, "Just, let me catch up. Like you said, my life was very different to yours, but I am, living in it. So, you just need to give me time to get used to it."

"What if I give you too much time?" he asked, "what if you find something that you can't take?"

"I'm not going anywhere," I vowed, wrapping my arms around his bare chest, "I would miss the sex."

He chuckled, hugging me right back, "Me too, Angelo. Me too."

I left Patrick to get dressed and headed back to my room. I just quickly washed my face, not needing a shower. It gave me the opportunity to have my hair down and curly before I put a little bit of makeup on. I then got dressed in a sliming black dress that had a thin black belt around my waist. It went with a grey jacket that covered my arms. Slipping on my black, shiny almond-toe heels, I tried to be ready for today.

I found them all in the kitchen like every other day, their stares not going a miss.

"Morning, Eeelizaaa," Alberto purred with gusto as Antonio wolf whistled.

I held my head up high, liking the confidence boost.

"You're both dead," Patrick growled, receiving chuckles from them.

"So, Lizzy, what are you going to do with the money you found?" Garrick asked, moving them from the topic before Patrick punched the brothers.

He was already on edge from our argument.

I shrugged, sipping my coffee, "I haven't really thought about it."

"You should put it towards your brothel. You know, redecorate," Piero suggested.

That was actually a really good idea. I was disappointed that I didn't think about it.

"I think I might. Carry had great ideas about Uomini Cielo that I really liked. Thanks Piero," I praised.

He shrugged, smiling, "I'm smarter than I look."

Nickola snorted winning a hit to the chest.

Ring, ring

I jumped at the sound of a phone ringing, blinking away the sense of dèjá vu.

"It's me," Patrick stated, placing his phone to his ear and walking towards the dining room.

"So how long have you two been sleeping together?" Nickola whispered once Patrick was out of ear shot.

I choked on my coffee, feeling my throat tighten.

"Sorry," I croaked, "you know?"

"Of course we know," was the general census.

"You told them," I groaned at Garrick, stamping my feet.

"They're not stupid, Lizzy," Garrick scoffed before muttering into his mug, "but yeah, I told them."

I scoffed and rolled my eyes at him.

"But tell us anyway," Antonio egged on, tapping my arm, "I mean, leave out details. Just general stuff."

I frowned, looking at all of them. Five grown men, duelling over my sex life.

"God, you sound like Zoey," I giggled, a small part of me loving every minute of this.

"We've got him. We're leaving, now," Patrick ordered, the boys immediately jumping into action.

"Where is he?" Garrick asked, as the five of them poured their coffees down the sink.

"Held up at Paradiso del Re. Come on, move it," Patrick barked.

"Who's held up?" I asked, finally being noticed by the rest of them.

The six of them froze, before Patrick was the only one left with a guilty look on his face.

"Listen, Eliza. A lot happened in those two weeks while you were asleep," Patrick stated, slowly making his way towards me.

"Have you found the person that shot my father?" I asked, jumping to conclusions.

He nodded, with a heavy sign. Right, that was all I needed to hear.

Putting my mug down, I tried to storm towards the door.

"Right, well, I'm going with you," I told him, feeling a fire burn inside of me.

"Oh no you're not, you're staying right here," Patrick ordered, stopping me before I even had a chance of escaping.

"This person killed my father!" I shouted.

"Yes, I know. And I understand the anger you're feeling but seeing this guy isn't going to help. You need to let me handle this," he told me.

I shook my head, "no, I can handle it."

I went to fight his grip but Patrick's body blocked my path. His eyes narrowed at me, in full seriousness, not giving up without a fight.

"No, Eliza. This, you can't," he growled, pecking my cheek, "I'll be back later."

With that, he left me with a burning fire in the pit of my stomach and no way of setting it out.

God, I couldn't let it go. The anger was the only thing keeping me standing. Why shouldn't I be allowed to see this guy? Why shouldn't I get some answers? This person killed my father. The father I loved. The father I worshipped. Nothing, not even finding out all the things he ever kept from me, nothing could take that away.

"Darling, you should sit down," Mrs Philips suggested as she came out of the library with a feather duster.

"No, I'm fine," I growled through my teeth, clutching my fists together to keep from exploding, "I mean, who the hell does he think he is? This is my father, not his. Shouldn't I be the one to get the justice?"

"Is it justice that you want...or revenge?" She questioned walking slowly towards me so not to upset the raging beast.

"What's the difference?" I snapped.

She shrugged, seeming very calm and very use to this treatment, "well, justice is about restoring balance and is based on logic. Revenge is an action to intentionally harm someone who has done you wrong and is based on emotion."

"And Patrick knows the difference?" I snapped, "He's going out to intentionally harm someone. He knew my father, surely he has emotional feelings about it."

She nodded, "yes, but he can control it better. He's learnt how to turn his feelings off."

I scoffed, "I'll say."

She was silent as I paced, nibbling on my fingernails.

"Could you handle it?" she asked, making me freeze, "You obliviously know what Mr Patrick is doing right now. Have you thought about the end result?"

The end result. Patrick killing someone. Not just that, could I watch Patrick kill someone? Could I kill someone?

I couldn't handle the questions. I turned and ran up the stairs.

I felt like we were back at the start again. Where Patrick was off somewhere killing people and I was left, pacing the room, growling to the open space.

I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do anything. I was in too deep. Physically, emotionally and mentally. I was physical involved because I was born into it. I was emotionally involved with Patrick – not in a loving way, just, connected to him. And mentally, because I couldn't run. My mind wouldn't let me.

Just as my body was about to collapse in exhaustion, my eyes landed on the black bag that was filled with my father's cash. Not just that. His photos and his letter.

Gaining some bravery, I knelt down and unzipped it. Pushing passed the cash, I found the stack of photos and the letter that Pappa had written for me. Taking them both, I kicking off my heels and climbed onto the bed. I pushed the letter aside and took the photos.

The first couple were all my parents at their beach house in Hawaii. They were cuddling on the front step, smiles on both their faces and a light in their eyes that I could only dream to have with Patrick.

There were some of just my mother on the beach. She was laughing, probably at my father behind the lens. The photos got closer and closer till it was only her eyes in the frame. My eyes.

God, I really did look like her. People told me all the time, but I couldn't really see it. Not until now.

It had been hours before there was a knock on the door and Patrick poked his head through. I had become numb after looking at all the photos that were spread out on my bed. My hands clutched the sealed letter, not having the heart to open it.

"Mrs Philips told me what happened in the void," he stated, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him, "Do you want to talk about it?"

I could tell that he had just gotten out of the shower by his hair and the soapie smell that filled the room.

"Is this what our life is going to be like?" I breathed hopelessly as he climbed into bed with me, "You, always seeking justice while I'm left behind."

He shrugged, taking my hand, "I'm afraid so."

I sighed, sinking back into the pillows, "I don't want it to be."

"I'm sorry, Eliza. But it's something that cannot change. When someone has done wrong by me and my family, they must be punished," when he saw me about to protest, he added, "And it's not just about killing people. We needed answers."

I frowned, "like what?"

"We couldn't be sure that the shooter that killed your father was related to the one that shot at us," he stated.

"Were they?"

He sighed, almost exhausted, "They were both mercenaries. But Xavier Jorden was hired by Gabriel Bover."

"The guy in Mexico?"

He nodded, "And Kaleb Falco was hired by an African company."

"African?" I questioned.

He nodded, "yeah, strange. There's not even an African contact in New York."

"So what happens now?" I asked, leaning against him.

"Now, we wait," he sighed, hugging me tighter, "we do a little more digging, call in a few favours. Find anymore connections."

"And if you don't?" I questioned.

He shrugged, "We start looking at the African company. First, we have to work on Bover."

"Have you worked out what you're going to do about the Cartel?" I asked.

He nodded, "I have a few contacts in the Cartel. I'll ask them how I should go about it."

"I thought you didn't like asking permission," I pointed out.

"I don't," he sighed, "But this is different. There's more at stake."

I nodded, breathing heavily as I rested against him.

"What's that?" Patrick asked, finally noticing the letter.

"Ahh, a letter," I told him, making his frown deepen, "From my father. I found it yesterday."

His mouth made an O as he realized what exactly it was to me. With realization, came confusion.

"Why haven't you opened it?" he asked.

I shrugged, feeling stupid, "I'm scared. These are my father's final words. I don't want them to ruin the memory of him."

"How can it?" he said, "Your father loved you."

"But, he kept things from me. He wasn't the man I knew."

"No, he was a different person from the outside world. The man you knew was the real Nicholas Uccello," he reassured me.

I nodded, my eyes falling on the letter. I knew I had to read it, I just didn't have the strength to open it.

Instead, I offered it to Patrick, "Can you read it for me?"

He was still, just looking at it.

Swallowing, he took it and cleared his throat.

"To my dearest, Lizzy," Patrick started, "I have many qualities, some we share. Being able to express my feelings is not one of them. That is why, I supposed, I'm writing this letter.

You have just found out about the world I was desperate to keep away from you. When your mother and I were first married, we thought we could have it all. A powerful empire, a family. We were wrong. And sadly, your mother paid the price.