Chapter 15
Fuck…
I can still feel how open I was, how I spread myself out for him to see without covering anything up.
Oh, fuck, the way I let myself be seen while wanting it to continue. I let him watch every part of me that I usually hide, and I stayed there instead of stopping it. And he saw everything. He heard every small sound I tried to hold back and failed to.
Now it sits heavy in my chest and stomach, mixing pleasure with disgust until I can’t separate them.
I remember the wetness between my thighs and how I didn’t rush to hide it. I remember how my body moved without me trying to make it look decent or restrained.
Now I have to exist in the same space as him, carrying this knowledge in my face and posture, knowing he’s seen me stripped down to something primitive.
I hate how much I enjoyed giving up control and being watched while I gave myself what I wanted. I hate that part of me is still turned on by the thought of it happening again, even while the rest of me wants to crawl inside myself and stay there.
At least today my father sent Adam out to take care of something, so he won’t be back until later tonight.
By then, I’ll be in my room with the door shut, not planning to see him.
It’s kind of weird that my father told him to leave.
What’s strange is that he actually sent him away from me. And Adam, being Adam, grabs any excuse to pull Wes along with him and screw up his day. Those two can’t stand each other, and it’s obvious. Doesn’t stop him from keeping Wes close just to keep things tense.
That gives me some space to get myself together after what happened—even though I know it stays with me—and I can sit by myself without anyone watching me or checking where I am.
It’s just one of those thoughts that pops up sometimes. Stupid …
I’m never really by myself, and there’s always some level of attention on me even when I think I’m alone. I’ve made peace with that, no matter how much I hate it. I’ve just gotten used to it. Maybe enough that it just passes through my head without much reaction.
I walk past my father’s office, and the door is slightly open, which already feels a bit off. It’s even stranger when I notice he’s inside with someone else.
“You’re a smart man, Fabio,” one of them says in a slow, steady voice. “The bionic limb business is solid work.”
Father gives a small nod and taps the side of his pant leg with his cane.
“I don’t invest in things I wouldn’t trust to hold my own weight.”
He shifts slightly, the faint mechanical whir under fabric barely noticeable unless someone is listening for it. His hand rests on the cane again.
“It serves its purpose,” he adds, voice calm and controlled.
“But it doesn’t bring in the kind of money that keeps real problems away,” another man answers, voice rough with age.
“You made yourself visible. You’ve got connections everywhere, and that means people see you from every angle.
If you want to stay safe, you need deeper pockets and stronger friends than the ones you’ve got now. ”
“I know,” Father says, irritation clear in his voice. “That’s why I have kept certain property untouched and ready for the right arrangement.”
“That better mean it’s clean,” one man says. “I don’t pay premium for something that’s already been worn down.”
I know they’re not talking about paperwork or shipments or anything normal. I’ve heard this tone my whole life.
It’s the tone people use when they’re deciding what something is worth, and whether it’s worth the trouble.
I stay where I am in the hallway, leaning a little against the wall, listening carefully. Part of me already wants to leave. Part of me is too used to this house to think it matters.
Property. Clean. Premium.
Such awful words I’ve been listening to my whole life, each one of them having a worse meaning than the other.
I brush my arm, and my sleeve grazes the door, making a small sound on the wood.
The talking cuts off.
I look up, and they’re all staring at me.
That feeling hits again. I feel exposed, and I catch myself pulling at my shirt and shifting my arms closer to my body, embarrassed by the reflex.
I’m fully dressed in jeans and a plain T-shirt that hides everything—nothing tight, revealing or sexy, yet I still feel stripped down in front of them, like they can see straight through fabric and skin.
“Gentlemen,” my father says, voice steady, almost pleasant, as he leans into the carved head of his cane. “This lovely lady is my daughter. Isabella Calvano.”
Lovely lady?
Since when does my father speak about me like that? Since when does he look at me long enough to notice anything worth praising?
My father is fifty-five. These men are older. Much older. Sixty. Seventy. Maybe more.
I notice it all at once. The sag of skin at their throats, the spotted hands wrapped around glasses, the way some of them breathe like each inhale is a struggle.
I force a small smile, because that’s what daughters do when they’re brought into rooms they don’t belong in.
A man somewhere to my left gives a low, appreciative hum.
“Exquisite,” he says, like he’s examining porcelain. “You’ve kept her very well.”
Another chuckles under his breath.
“Healthier than I expected,” he mutters. “Clear skin. Good posture. Strong eyes.”
Strong eyes? I swallow, suddenly unsure where to look.
“Graceful,” another voice says. “She’ll … adapt easily.”
The first one leans closer, his creased eyes squinting behind the glasses.
“Does she speak? Or is she quiet by nature?”
My father gives a soft, amused breath.
“She’s well behaved.”
“Uhm,” I mutter, unsure of what I’m supposed to do.
“Good,” the second man says. “That’s very good.”
Father nods once, satisfied, and gestures toward the door without looking at me. I take the hint and step back. None of the men acknowledge me anymore. Their attention shifts to him, to each other, to their drinks and their quiet voices.
I walk out, heading to my own room.
Finally, I can breathe again.
It’s strange to feel trapped in your own house—in the place that’s supposed to be safe. Around the people who are supposed to care about you and keep you safe. Strange how I’ve never felt this way.
The hallway outside is warm, but I still feel cold. I keep my pace steady. I don’t want anyone calling me back. I keep my hands folded in front of me until I turn the corner, then I drop them to my sides.
My room is at the end of the hall. The door is slightly open, and the light inside is off. I step in and close it behind me, then lock it. I stand there for a moment, listening to my own breathing.
The smell of cleaning products is sharp tonight. It pulls something loose in my chest. I sit on the edge of my bed and press my hands together between my knees.
I remember being just a kid—around ten or eleven—sitting at the kitchen table long after dark, back in Italy. The smell of antiseptic and medication was thick in the air, like in a hospital. I don’t remember why.
The overhead light was the only one on. My father stood at the counter talking to two men I didn’t know. They were older than him. One of them kept looking at me while they talked.
My father told me to stay in my chair and be quiet. He told me I was good when I listened. He put his hand on the back of my shoulder when he said it. He didn’t hurt me. Actually, it was one of the most precious gestures he ever made to me.
One of the men asked if I always listened this well. My father said yes. He said I learned early.
They talked about me while I sat there. Height. Health. Temper. They talked as if I wasn’t part of the room. I remember staring at a crack in the table and counting my breaths because I knew I was not allowed to talk. I wanted to cry, but until now, I didn’t know why.
Their presence felt imposing and scary.
At some point, my father had told me to stand up and turn around. I did it. I remember the chair legs scraping the floor. The sound of one of the men laughing under his breath.
I remember my father telling me I did good after they left. He let me have dessert that night. He told me I’d made him proud.
That pulled a smile out of me before I could stop it.
It was the first time he’d looked directly at me for longer than a few seconds.
It was the first time he’d spoken to me without sounding irritated or distracted.
I remember sitting very straight while I ate, because I wanted him to keep watching me. I wanted him to keep talking to me.
I never saw those men again after that night.
Nobody mentioned them.
Nobody mentioned anything.
Three years later, we left Italy and moved to Los Angeles. I was told to pack what I needed and leave the rest. The house was emptied fast. Staff disappeared without a goodbye, except for some trusted who were forced to follow.
My father stayed tense the entire day we left. He kept checking his watch and looking out of windows. He snapped at everyone. When the car arrived, he pushed me inside before the driver even stepped out, cursing me as if it was my fault.
My mother paid attention to none of it. She walked through the house in open robes or underwear with a drink in her hand, barely able to stand straight.
She didn’t care who saw her. Staff kept their eyes down and moved around her.
She laughed at nothing and spilled alcohol on the floors.
Sometimes she forgot I was standing in the room. As always…
Nobody explained why we left. Nobody talked about Italy again.
This place felt tight from the first day. The same type of people moved through it. The same silence filled the rooms. Nobody raised their voice. Nobody laughed unless my father did first. Nothing changed. Only the address.
When we arrived here, I was old enough to notice more and young enough to still hope for something different. As my body changed and my emotions got sharper, I spent more time inside my head.
I’d built faces and voices for people who would notice me, choose me, and take me somewhere else. I held onto that for years, even when I stopped believing it would happen.
My father had made sure nobody ever got close enough to try.
His men watched me at school, outside stores, at events.
They watched who I spoke to and how long I spoke with them.
They stepped closer when boys tried to approach me.
They learned names and made people nervous. After a while, nobody tried anymore.
At home, his men barely spoke to me. I was something they were told to keep an eye on, not someone they needed to know. When I walked into a room, conversations stopped or shifted to things that didn’t matter.
I grew up inside that silence. Days passed with no one asking what I liked or what I thought.
Birthdays were acknowledged with gifts chosen by assistants.
Dinners were quiet unless my father wanted to talk about himself or business.
My mother faded further into alcohol and pills and stopped noticing when I entered or left a room.
And when she did, she had always a venomous comment to throw.
Loneliness had settled into me early and never left. The need for attention kept growing until it felt permanent. The desperation for someone to look at me and see a person had never faded.
I’d learned to carry it quietly, because there was nowhere for it to go.