Chapter 8 Mikayla
Mikayla
The car with blacked out windows glided through the cobblestone streets noiselessly.
Enzo drove with the calm confidence of a man who had never once questioned a speed limit, while Larry sat up front beside him, legs spread, elbow out the window like this was a road trip and not an errand to get me dressed.
I watched the world pass by in silence, the weight of it pressed too hard on my chest.
Gianni leaned back in his seat, expression unreadable.
Outside, Montalcino unfolded like a postcard someone had exaggerated for effect.
“I’ve never been to this part of Tuscany before,” I said.
Golden stone buildings climbed the hills in quiet defiance of gravity. Terracotta roofs baked under the sun, glowing warm and ancient. Vineyards stretched endlessly across rolling hills, rows so precise they looked deliberate—like chaos had been carefully edited out of the landscape.
Cypress trees stood tall and dark, lining the roads like solemn sentinels, while olive groves shimmered silver-green in the breeze. Everything smelled faintly of sun-warmed earth and something floral I didn’t have a word for but desperately wanted to bottle and keep beside me.
It was unfair, really. That a place could be this beautiful while my life was actively on fire.
The car slowed, then eased to a stop in front of a boutique so understated it practically dared you to underestimate it. It had a stone facade and tall windows. Mannequins were dressed in effortless, expensive attire.
Gianni glanced at it, then at me. “You said you wanted to choose.”
I swallowed, suddenly aware of the the borrowed shirt I was wearing, the bruises beneath it, and the fact that Gianni had never done anything to deserve being dragged into my mess.
“Well,” I said, opening the door as Enzo stepped out to assist, “if I’m going to be hunted by a Russian psychopath, I’d at least like to look appropriate for the occasion.”
A hint of amusement flickered across Gianni’s face
And for the first time since leaving the house, I felt almost—almost—like myself again.
No one could ever accuse Gianni—last name still conspicuously absent—of being a cheapskate.
I, on the other hand, approached the situation like a woman who had spent most of her adult life comparing price tags and convincing herself she didn’t need things.
I picked out a few pairs of sensible boyfriend jeans—nothing tight, and nothing that clung.
Just structured enough to behave, forgiving enough not to announce my hips before I did.
Then came the T-shirts. Plain. Neutral. Long enough to skim past my thighs, loose enough to blur the outline of my chest instead of advertising it.
I avoided mirrors while I worked. I knew what I’d see if I didn’t.
Hips that felt too wide for narrow aisles and polite expectations.
A chest that never seemed to fit the buttons it was given.
Thighs that touched no matter how much space I tried to leave between them, like they refused to pretend otherwise.
Clothes, for me, had always been less about style and more about negotiation. What I could hide and soften. What I could pass off as… passable.
When I was done, I stepped back and surveyed the pile. Efficient. Minimal. Sensible. And I was proud of myself, because the items would let me move through the world without feeling like I took up more space than I was allowed.
Gianni responded by treating my restraint like a personal challenge.
While I headed to the change room to try my selected clothes on, he calmly dismantled my entire plan.
He murmured requests to the saleslady—quiet, decisive, impossible to interrupt—and within minutes she’d opened a second change room, then a third, like she was preparing for an emergency evacuation.
By the time I emerged in my third outfit, the pile outside my door had grown into something that required structural support.
Jeans. Dresses. Shoes in boxes stacked like bricks.
Boots I hadn’t asked for but secretly loved.
Sets of underwear I absolutely had not requested, and loungewear—plural—because I’d muttered something about liking comfort over style and he’d taken that as a mission statement.
Handbags appeared next, chosen by Gianni with unsettling confidence, like he’d been accessorising women his entire life and this was merely a long hiatus.
I tried to argue.
Once.
“It’s too much,” I said, waving a helpless hand at the growing pile now threatening to block the exit. “I couldn’t wear this many clothes in a lifetime. Even if I made it my full-time job.”
He glanced at the stack. Then at me. Calm. Unmoved. Like this was basic math and I was the one struggling with it.
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
And that was the end of the discussion.
By the time we finished, Enzo and Larry were carrying bags and boxes out to the car like overworked elves. We had enough clothes and shoes to dress a small soccer team. Possibly a reserve bench, too.
For one surreal moment, I felt like I’d wandered into my own real-life version of Pretty Woman. Except Gianni was younger than the rich guy, significantly more dangerous, and I was very aware that I was broader in the hips than Julia Roberts had ever been.
We escaped to a nearby café for lunch—something simple and quiet, because apparently even mob bosses needed carbohydrates. We settled at a small table, the Tuscan sun warm against my skin, espresso arriving before I’d even finished sitting down.
I took a sip of coffee and watched the people drift past—locals, tourists, couples holding hands like there love was new and fresh and all-consuming.
Gianni watched me watching them.
And I wondered, not for the first time, how I’d ended up here, drinking espresso in Tuscany with a man who could end lives with a word, and feeling… oddly taken care of.
Which felt dangerous in an entirely different way.
“So,” he said once the silence turned uncomfortable, “you and Archie Popovich.”
I flinched. I’d managed—barely—to push him out of my head, and Gianni had just dragged him back into the room.
“Can you not say his name?” I asked. “Please.”
He didn’t soften or apologise. “What were you thinking—leaving him at the altar like that? Did you have a death wish?”
“No,” I said calmly. “I executed an escape plan with far more confidence than competence. Poorly executed, but heartfelt.”
His jaw tightened. “Probably not one of your better decisions.”
“In this case,” I said, “there wasn’t much decision involved.”
Something shifted in his expression. Recognition, maybe. Or experience.
“Ah,” he said quietly. “One of those.”
The way he said it—flat, knowing—made something in me unravel. I looked out the window, watching the road blur past, letting the movement buy me a second to decide how much truth I could afford to give him.
“My stepfather arranged the marriage,” I said. “To cover his gambling debts.”
I felt the recalibration before I saw it—the slight turn of his body, the way his attention locked fully onto me now. When I glanced back, he was studying me like I’d just changed the rules mid-game.
“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“And he’s your stepfather,” he repeated, like the words didn’t sit right in his mouth.
“My mother died when I was fifteen,” I said. “She and George had been married less than a year. I didn’t have anyone else. And he was… generous enough not to throw me out of the house.”
The word generous tasted bitter.
“And your father?”
“Died when I was too young to remember him.”
He exhaled through his nose, clearly trying—and failing—to make it fit. “So your stepfather still has that much control over your life?”
I shook my head. “Not control. Leverage.”
He frowned. “Explain.”
“I needed a place to live. I needed stability. He was the only family I had left.” My voice sharpened despite my effort. “I needed him. And he knew it. It’s not something you notice all at once.”
Silence stretched again, this time different. Tighter.
“That doesn’t make it acceptable,” Gianni said.
“I didn’t say it did,” I replied. “I said it happened.”
He stared at me, clearly trying to reconcile the woman sitting in front of him with the situation I’d just described. Strong. Sharp. Not broken. And still trapped.
“I don’t think you understand,” I added quietly. “By the time I realized what he was capable of, it was already done.”
Gianni looked away, jaw set, eyes dark. He didn’t offer me sympathy or platitudes. Just confusion—raw and unfiltered—cutting through his control. And somehow, that unsettled me more than his pity ever could.
“You seem afraid of him,” he said, watching me closely, “yet you’re not afraid of me.”
“I am,” I corrected without hesitation. “I’m absolutely afraid of you. I’m just… prioritizing my fear. You’re later on the list.”
That earned a pause.
“And who’s first?” he asked.
I didn’t need to think about it. “You know who. He Who Shall Not Be Named.”
Something dark crossed his face—fast, sharp, gone almost before I could register it. But it was enough. Enough to tell me I’d hit something solid.
“You’re a handful,” he said quietly. “I can’t imagine He Who Shall Not Be Named didn’t demand a refund.”
I met his gaze and shook my head. “If anything, my quick wit made him more determined to keep me.”
He let out a low laugh—brief, surprised, like it slipped past his guard before he could stop it. The sound settled somewhere in my chest, unsettling in a way I refused to examine too closely.
“You’re going to be trouble,” he said.
“I’ve been told,” I replied. “Usually right before things go very badly for everyone involved.”