Chapter 13 Mikayla
Mikayla
The house was shrouded in silence. It felt like we stood in the aftermath of something monumental.
I sat on the edge of the bed, robe pulled tight, my heart still thudding in my throat like it hadn’t quite gotten the message that the danger had passed. Every nerve in my body was lit, humming, waiting for the next explosion that didn’t come.
Eventually, the silence pressed in too hard.
I stood.
The pain felt proportionate. Earned. I opened the door slowly, half-expecting to be snapped at, ordered back inside like a nuisance who didn’t know her place.
But there was no one at the door. No one shouted at me to get back inside or stay away from the chaos outside my room.
A few of the men glanced my way, then deliberately looked elsewhere, like they’d all agreed not to make me feel like an intruder. Or maybe so I wouldn’t feel like this had been my fault.
Gianni stood near the front door, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, blood smeared along one knuckle—not his, I hoped. He was speaking quietly to Enzo, his posture relaxed in that way that meant he was anything but.
I cleared my throat.
“Is there… something I can do… to help?”
The words surprised me as much as they seemed to surprise him.
Gianni turned slowly, eyes landing on me with that same unreadable calm—but something shifted when he took me in. The bare feet. The robe. The fact that I was standing there.
He studied me for a moment, then shook his head once. “No.”
I nodded. Of course. Stupid question.
But then he added, quieter, “Come on, I’ll walk you to your room.”
He shot a quick look at Dunn, who answered with a tight nod—the kind meant to say I’ve got this, even if no one fully believed it.
I almost argued. I wanted him to know that I was fine, and I didn’t want to take him away from his work. But I already knew it wouldn’t change anything. When Gianni was determined, he didn’t ask. He simply decided.
He walked me back to my room—far enough from the broken door to feel safe, but close enough that the damage still felt real, like it was stuck in the walls. The night pressed against the windows, dark and heavy, as if it was waiting to see what would happen next.
I sat down.
He followed and sat at the other end of the sofa, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. He didn’t speak. He just stayed there—steady, alert, impossible to ignore.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
The silence felt fragile, like it might shatter if either of us moved too fast.
“Did anyone get hurt?” I asked finally.
There was no pretending nothing had happened. The sound of gunfire still rang in my ears—the sharp cracks, the violence of it, the certainty that this wasn’t a mistake or a false alarm. Someone had crossed a line tonight, and the house still felt bruised from it.
Gianni didn’t look at me.
“Everyone’s safe,” he said. “Accounted for.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“What happened?” My voice came out barely louder than a whisper.
He looked down at his hands, rubbing his palms together slowly, like he was trying to warm them—or delay what he was about to say. The movement made my stomach tighten. This could not be good.
“It looks like you want to tell me something,” I said gently. “But you can’t.”
He didn’t answer right away.
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “Whatever it is… it can’t possibly be that bad.”
Gianni lifted his head then and met my eyes.
“Archie Popovich is the one who attacked the house tonight.”
The wheels started spinning in my head. If Archie attacked Gianni’s house, that meant he knew…
“My stepfather—”
“He’s dead.”
The words landed without warning. No soft edges. No preparation. Just blunt force.
The air left my lungs in a rush, like something had punched straight through my chest. I couldn’t breathe for a second—couldn’t even remember how. There was a sharp ringing in my ears, loud enough to drown out everything else, and then nothing but the sound of my own pulse.
I nodded once. Then again. Like my body needed repetition before it would accept what my mind already knew. I had known. Somewhere deep down, I had known the moment I ran. I’d just been too afraid to say it out loud.
“I ran,” I whispered. My voice barely sounded like mine. “And he paid for it.”
My throat burned. Tears gathered instantly, hot and fast, blurring everything in front of me.
“No,” Gianni said. “He paid for gambling with men who don’t forgive losses. He got himself killed.”
The words should have helped. They didn’t.
“Marrying Archie was supposed to save him,” I said. My voice cracked halfway through Archie’s name. “That was the deal. That was the point. That’s all he wanted from me. How could I…”
My chest started to shake. I pressed my lips together, trying to keep it in, but the first hiccup tore out of me anyway. Then another. Ugly, sharp little sounds I couldn’t stop.
Gianni didn’t interrupt.
He just watched me.
“You are not responsible for Archie’s behavior,” he said.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My face twisted, and the tears spilled over properly now, sliding down my cheeks, dripping off my chin. I swiped at them angrily, which only made more come.
I had believed it. Or maybe I’d forced myself to.
I knew what Archie Popovich was. Everyone did. I knew what he did to women he claimed. I knew marrying him would have destroyed me.
But George was still my stepfather.
And I’d been raised to believe that love meant sacrifice. That a good daughter swallowed her fear and was obedient. Walking away felt like betrayal—even if staying would have killed me slowly and quietly.
“I feel…” My voice broke completely. I sucked in a breath that hitched halfway up my chest. “I feel…”
The words tasted awful.
“I feel guilty,” I said, sobbing now, shoulders shaking. “I feel like I’m a terrible person, and that makes me feel like I killed him myself.”
My breathing turned ugly then—sharp inhales, hiccupping sobs I couldn’t control. My nose ran. My chest hurt. My hands curled uselessly in my lap like I could hold the feeling still if I just squeezed hard enough.
“Guilt,” Gianni said finally, “is a luxury for people who believe they had better options.”
I shook my head, tears flinging free. “There’s always a choice.”
“Yes,” he said. “And sometimes every choice ends on the same road.”
A sound ripped out of me—half sob, half laugh, completely broken.
“I didn’t want to humiliate him,” I cried. “I didn’t want him dead. I just—I just wanted to live without destroying myself to keep someone else comfortable.”
My face folded. My body followed.
I bent forward, arms wrapping around my middle like I could hold myself together if I tried hard enough. Tears poured out of me now, unchecked, soaking the front of my robe. My breathing went erratic—hiccups snapping through every sob.
Gianni moved closer on the couch.
I barely noticed until his presence was right there, solid and warm.
“Your stepfather made a mistake,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t fair to put that burden on you.”
I shook my head violently. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve—”
“No,” he said. Firm. Unmovable. “You didn’t run from a man. You ran from a death sentence.”
My chest stuttered.
“Your father wrote it,” he continued. “Your fiancé intended to enforce it. And you refused to serve it.”
I looked up at him through tears so thick I could barely see his face.
“You don’t think I’m selfish?” I asked, voice wrecked.
“I think,” he said, “you were raised to confuse obedience with love.”
Something inside me gave way. It just… broke.
I started crying in earnest then—ugly, gasping sobs that shook my whole body. My face twisted. My shoulders collapsed. I didn’t bother wiping my tears anymore. There was no dignity left to protect.
And then his arms were around me.
Careful at first. Then firm.
He pulled me in, solid and unyielding, one hand pressing between my shoulder blades, the other anchoring me to his chest. I cried into him without permission, soaking his shirt, shaking so hard that my heart threatened to give out.
He didn’t shush me. He just held me while I fell apart. And for the first time since I ran, I let myself believe that surviving didn’t make me cruel. It just meant I was human.